LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


BERENICE 


n    £,    . 


BERENICE 


A    NOVEL. 


BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  &  COMPANY, 
1856. 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    &    COMPANY. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


e-nsEtoTYHD   st 

liOBART   k   BOBBINS, 

New  England  Tjpe  and  Stereotype  founder?, 

BOSTON. 


BERENICE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

FRIEND  of  my  heart !  you  say  you  miss  me  from  the 
world  in  which  you  live,  and  would  know  what  I  am 
doing  in  my  new  home  in  the  eastern  land  of  pine- 
clad  hills  and  rock-girt  shores. 

My  new  home  is  in  the  house  where  my  father  (ven 
erated  name ! )  once  dwelt ;  our  old  homestead,  long 
deserted,  but  now  refitted,  and  made  tenantable. 

It  stands  on  a  bleak  and  barren  headland  on  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  of  the  islands  of  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty- five  that  dot  the  blue  bay  of  Passamaquoddy; 
the  bay  that  is  said  to  be  as  beautiful  as  that  of  Naples. 

Passamaquoddy  cradles  its  friendly  waters  between 
the  opposing  shores  of  Campobello  and  Moose  Island: 
the  one,  subjected  to  the  rule  of  his  majesty  King 
I* 


6  BERENICE. 

George  IV. ;  the  other,  one  of  the  jewels  of  Uncle  Sam's 
diadem  of  States. 

My  island  home !  Come,  and  see  if  it  is  not  beauti 
ful  as  I  tell  you. 

My  home  in  the  house  on  the  rock  !  Here  I  sit  and 
muse  in  the  turret-chamber,  where  my  father  sat,  like 
an  eagle  in  his  eyrie,  watching  the  world  spin  round. 
My  father's  house  !  Pardon  the  fond  delight  of  one  so 
long  an  alien.  I  am  rapturous  as  a  child  restored 
to  its  mother's  bosom.  My  home !  Here,  when  the 
night  has  darkened  down,  are  displayed  those  northern 
streams  of  splendor,  flashing  like  glimpses  of  immortal 
light  from  the  polar  zone. 

Night !  blessed  night !  then  is  the  fisherman's  har 
vest-hour  ;  then,  with  the  pitch-knot  lighted,  flaring 
and  blazing  at  his  shallop's  prow,  he  casts  the  net  into 
the  phosphor-gleaming  sea ;  but,  as  he  plies  his  solitary 
oar,  he  hears  strange  murmurings  in  the  breeze  that 
skims  and  ruffles  the  gently-heaving  ocean.  To  cheer 
his  loneliness,  he  chants  a  stave  from  some  rude  bal 
lad  of  a  bygone  time,  which  tells  how  the  pirates  of 
the  Scorpion  once  infested  this  eastern  coast,  and 
forced  a  maiden,  just  in  her  May  of  life,  to  walk  the 


BERENICE.  7 

dreadful  plank,  and,  vainly  struggling,  drink  a  briny 
death ;  and  this  full  in  her  lover's  view,  who  sat  in 
irons  on  the  deck,  and,  helpless,  saw  her  perish.  A 
wailing  voice,  like  the  lone  plover's  cry,  sounds  over 
the  watery  waste,  and  thrills  the  chanter  with  myste 
rious  awe.  But  he  grimly  smiles  at  his  own  foolish 
fancies,  and  pufls  his  checks  to  wrhistle  to  the  wind, 
though  never  a  sound  is  heard. 

The  skies  smile  on  the  fisher's  toil ;  the  sea  teems 
with  life ;  his  nets  are  full ;  he  quenches  his  torch  in 
the  hissing  waves,  where  so  long  ago  the  fire  of  that 
young  maiden's  love  went  out.  lie  pulls  his  boat 
shoreward  with  a  steady  dipping  oar ;  and  then  he  re 
tires  to  his  humble  cottage,  to  dream,  perhaps,  of  the 
struggles  of  drowning  men,  of  gold  and  gems,  of  silks 
of  Tyrian  dye,  arid  of  all  the  wealth  which  the  ocean 
caverns  hold. 

My  earliest  recollections  of  my  father  are  of  his 
placing  me  on  a  low  bench,  between  his  knees,  when 
my  head  came  just  up  to  his  heart,  as  we  sat  together 
in  the  turret-chamber  in  the  clear  afternoons.  He, 
with  his  spy-glass,  watched  the  ships  in  the  distance 
sailing  in  various  directions,  or,  perhaps,  riding  at 


8  BERENICE. 

anchor  in  the  bay.  For  years  he  held  an  office 
under  government  in  the  revenue  department,  arid  was 
obliged  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  for  smugglers. 

I  love  the  old  place,  wild  and  lonely  as  it  is.  I 
like  the  inhabitants  of  this  out-of-the-way  district,  sim 
ple  and  illiterate  as  most  of  them  are.  Their  quaint 
oddities  amuse  me  when  I  am  in  a  humor  to  be  amused  ; 
and,  once  a  month,  just  to  keep  up  a  spirit  of  sociality 
and  good-feeling  among  my  neighbors,  I  give  an  enter 
tainment  in  the  old  hall,  and  ask  all  the  children  to 
make  merry  at  the  feast.  The  place  does  not  look 
dismal  to  them ;  they  are  perfectly  charmed  with  the 
bright  china,  and  nicely-flavored  cakes,  fruits  and  sweet 
meats,  which  I  prepare  with  my  own  hands,  for  I  must 
please  something  in  spite  of  my  sterner  moods ;  but 
the  happy,  dimpled  faces,  tanned  and  rough  by  expos 
ure,  make  me  glad ;  they  are  the  sunshine  of  my  life. 
I  like  children  for  friends ;  one  is  sure  of  their  unso 
phisticated  hearts. 

Perhaps  I  am  misanthropic  ;  but  I  am  heartily  tired 
of  the  sickly  refinements  of  society ;  they  pall  upon  the 
senses.  Hate,  envy,  pride,  and  ambition,  lurk  around 
the  corniced  galleries,  or  stand  discontented  in  the 


BERENICE.  9 

niches  of  the  lofty  halls.  The  orgies  of  dissipation 
are  considered  the  classical  refinements  of  society  by 
those  who  minister  at  these  shrines.  Besides,  I  believe 
that  solitude  is  my  heritage,  and  I  must  learn  to  enjoy 
it.  I  am  a  miser  of  time.  I  hoard  every  moment, 
but  I  have  more  to  give  my  friends  than  when  I  lived 
in  the  world. 

I  have  not  forgotten,  my  friend,  that  you  have   oft 
besought  me,  with 

"  Prayer  of  earnest  heart, 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  you  have  something  heard  ;  " 

that  I  should  tell  you,  heart  to  heart,  the  story  of 
my  life.  It  is  but  an  every-day  experience,  when  all 
is  told  ;  but  it  has  been  changeful  enough  for  me  ! 


CHAPTER    II. 

THERE  are  hours  when  scenes  and  impressions  long 
past  come  upon  us  with  magical  power ;  when  re 
membrances  of  other  days  stand  out  before  the  mind's 
eye  with  the  coloring  and  outline  of  the  present. 
Although  the  hurrying  events  of  each  successive  day 
may  seem  to  have  swept  from  the  memory  many  scenes 
in  which  we  have  been  actors,  and  we  deem  them 
buried  past  recall,  yet,  in  some  moment  of  half-for- 
getfulness,  the  soul,  retiring  within  itself,  ponders  un 
consciously  upon  the  past,  until  we  are  startled  from 
our  revery  by  the  intense  reality  of  the  pictures  of 
memory.  Faces  and  forms,  which  have  been  long 
wrapped  in  the  cerements  of  the  grave,  stand  before 
us  in  the  warm  colors  of  life;  we  can  almost  fancy 
the  sweet  breath  playing  upon  our  cheeks,  and  the 
voices,  whose  familiar  tones  are  forever  hushed,  yet 
ringing  merrily  in  our  ears. 


BERENICE.  11 

There  came  two  brothers,  exiles,  from  Switzerland, 
Carl  and  Gustav  de  Thou  ;  and  after  many  months  of 
wandering  they  settled  on  this  eastern  shore,  and  made 
their  home  on  this  island. 

Carl  was  my  grandfather ;  his  brother  pined  in  exile, 
and  could  not  rest ;  and  after  a  time  he  again  became 
a  rover,  and  went  to  pitch  his  tent  on  the  great  western 
prairies. 

The  family  history  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  sealed 
book  to  me.  My  father  was  twice  married,  and  was 
an  old  man  when  he  took  to  wife  my  fair  and  blooming 
mother.  She  was  of  French  descent,  and  had  Norman 
blood  in  her  veins.  She  bore  my  father  two  children, 
of  which  I  was  the  younger  ;  and,  when  born,  I  was  the 
only  one  of  whose  existence  they  felt  sure,  for  a  horri 
ble  uncertainty  hung  over  my  brother's  fate. 

I  scarcely  dare  say  how  early  in  my  infant  life  I 
comprehended  the  story  of  my  brother's  loss ;  but,  as 
soon  as  I  could  speak,  I  was  never  tired  of  asking 
questions  of  him,  or  of  listening  to  recitals  of  the  mel 
ancholy  story ;  and,  when  I  was  but  the  merest  infant 
I  saw  the  sadness  in  my  mother's  face,  and  I  knew 
why  the  tears  streamed  over  her  pale  cheeks. 


12  BERENICE. 

I  tried  to  divert  and  soothe  her  by  shouldering  a 
wooden  mallet,  and  trudging  out  of  doors  to  the  corner 
of  the  house,  where  stood  a  large  iron  kettle  (for  what 
purpose  it  was  there  I  never  knew).  To  my  young 
fancy  the  ringing  sounds  that  I  produced  upon  it  were 
most  ecstatic  music.  Then  back  I  would  go  to  note  its 
effect  on  her,  till,  at  last,  weary  with  repeated  failures, 
I  would  run  to  nurse  Tibby  and  beg  her  to  rock  me  in 
her  arms,  and  tell  me  about  my  lost  brother. 

Carl  was  a  brilliant,  active  little  fellow,  full  of  courage 
and  daring,  a  real  child  of  the  eyrie  ;  but  he  was  lost ! 

My  parents  were  absent  from  home  on  a  short  visit 
of  a  few  hours  to  some  friends  on  the  opposite  shore. 
The  boy  was  left  in  the  care  of  a  domestic,  who  had 
always  been  faithful  until  that  day,  when  she  inadvert 
ently  proved  untrue  to  her  charge. 

Carl  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  a  great  portion  of 
his  time  at  play  in  a  small  boat,  which  was  moored  at 
the  beach,  in  sight  of  my  mother's  window.  There  he 
would  sit  for  hours,  rocking  himself  to  the  dancing 
waves,  or  making  short  excursions  to  the  huge  black 
rocks  within  reach  of  the  length  of  the  line  by  which 
the  boat  was  fastened.  He  called  them  his  "  castles." 


BERENICE.  18 

It  had  been  considered  perfectly  safe  to  allow  him  to 
amuse  himself  thus,  until  that  inauspicious  day.  He 
was  at  his  accustomed  pastime;  the  tide  was  setting 
swiftly  seaward,  the  painter  was  broken,  and  the  little 
voyager  drifted  out  of  sight  before  he  was  missed. 

My  parents  returned  to  their  home,  at  night,  to  find 
a  horror  of  which  they  could  never  have  dreamed. 

Every  effort  that  parental  love  and  wisdom  could 
suggest,  for  the  discovery  of  the  child's  fate,  proved 
unavailing.  The  boat  was  found,  but  no  trace  of  the 
boy ;  and  from  that  day  they  knew  but  this,  the  child 
was  not. 

There  had  been  no  sickness,  no  visible  death,  no 
little  shrouded  body  to  be  laid  in  consecrated  ground ; 
none  of  those  last,  dear,  sad  offices,  performed  by  the 
hand  of  love,  that  make  the  aching  heart  lighter,  even 
in  its  heaviness.  But  the  gloom  of  the  pall  and  bier 
fell  upon  my  parents'  hopes,  as  days  and  weeks  went 
by,  and  there  were  no  tidings  of  the  child.  It  might 
be  that  some  vindictive  smuggler,  whom  my  father  had 
frustrated  in  his  unlawful  traffic,  had  stolen  the  child 
for  vengeance.  It  was  just  possible  he  might  have  been 
picked  up  by  some  ships  outward  bound :  it  was  a  faint 
2 


14  BERENICE. 

hope,  yet  the  doubt  was  almost  as  hard  to  bear  as  the 
certainty  of  his  death  would  have  been. 

They  said,  "  The  dear  little  infant  Berenice  came,  like 
a  gleam  of  sunshine,  to  illumine  the  darkness."  I  en 
joyed  a  few  happy  years  of  childhood  —  few,  and  short. 

My  father,  who  was  one  of  the  most  eccentric  of  men, 
became,  at  once,  my  tutor  and  playfellow.  We  were 
constant  companions.  His  great  delight  was  in  boating, 
and  visiting  wild  and  desolate  tracts  of  land ;  in  botan 
izing  ;  and,  in  spite  of  wind  and  weather,  he  would  take 
ine  with  him,  though  sorely  against  my  mother's  incli 
nations.  It  required  our  united  efforts  to  conquer  her 
aversion  to  these  aquatic  and  botanical  excursions ;  so 
venturesome  were  our  wanderings  regarded,  even  by 
the  fearless  boatmen  about  the  islands.  They  gave  my 
father  the  sobriquet  of  Neptune  ;  and  a  rude  boy 
made  me  cry  one  day  by  calling  me  "old  Neptune's 
daughter." 

On  these  wild  expeditions,  no  matter  how  our  egg 
shell  of  a  boat  might  be  threatened,  no  matter  how 
tipsily  the  waves  might  roll,  and  toss  their  white  caps  to 
the  squally  sky,  my  father  would  never  permit  me  to 
flinch  for  a  moment,  or  to  shrink  from  my  place.  I  had 


BERENICE.  15 

often  a  mind  to  crouch  down,  and  cover  my  eyes  from 
the  terrible  sight  of  the  sea.  He  would  exclaim,  "  Sit 
up,  my  girl !  sit  up,  and  face  the  danger  boldly  !  This 
is  nothing  to  what  you  must  encounter  in  your  voyage 
through  life,  and,  perhaps,  without  a  pilot  to  bring  you 
safe  to  land !  Be  not  afraid  of  the  storm,  and  you 
shall  ride  above  it !  " 

His  encouraging  tones  always  reassured  me ;  and  I  did 
"  sit  up,"  and  smile,  too,  in  the  very  face  of  the  wind. 

Through  bad  management,  and  too  great  confidence  in 
the  honor  of  other  men,  my  father  lost  his  entire  prop 
erty  ;  his  official  position  had  before  been  consigned  to  a 
younger  aspirant  for  the  honor  ;  and  we  were  almost  beg 
gared.  Even  the  house  we  lived  in  could  not  be  called 
our  own.  It  was  very  hard  for  my  father,  when  he  was 
far  advanced  in  years,  to  feel  that  he  must  quit  this 
home,  and  that  his  wife  and  child  must  be  turned  upon 
the  world  penniless.  It  was  not  surprising  that  reason 
was  hardly  under  his  control.  He  soon  became  as 
dependent  as  an  infant  on  my  mother's  care  ;  and  yet  it 
wras  thought  best  that  she  should  leave  him,  for  a 
little  time,  and  we  went,  together,  to  some  relatives  of 
hers  in  a  distant  part  of  the  State. 


16  BERENICE. 

My  father  bade  us  farewell  on  the  beach,  by  the  side 
of  the  sea,  so  soon  to  roll  between  us. 

"  Berenice,"  said  he,  u  comfort,  and  take  care  of  your 
mother." 

The  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  the  wind  tossed  his 
white  hair,  and  he  spoke  very  sadly. 

"  Father,"  I  replied,  "  I  will  always  be  your  little 
philosopher." 

He  had  taught  me  to  call  myself  so.  He  took  us 
both  in  his  arms,  and  called  us  his  only  treasures. 

I  was  lifted  into  the  boat,  and  clung  to  my  mother, 
weeping  silently ;  but  I  heard  the  monotonous  jarring 
of  the  oars  between  the  thole-pins,  and  knew  that  we 
were  shooting  swiftly  from  the  shore.  Then  I  looked 
back,  and  could  see  my  father  still  upon  the  beach,  wav 
ing  his  handkerchief  in  a  last  adieu.  Just  then  the 
boat  changed  tack,  we  turned  the  point  of  a  headland, 
and  were  lost  to  each  other's  view.  In  a  few  moments 
more  we  had  boarded  the  vessel ;  the  sails  were  un 
furled  ;  we  dropped  slowly  down  the  narrows.  I  fixed 
my  eyes  on  each  well-remembered  point  of  land,  as 
one  after  another  hove  in  sight,  and  strained  my  vision 
till  the  last  was  lost  in  the  misty  distance.  "  Grand- 


BERENICE.  17 

manan,"  "  Petitmanan,"  "  Quoddy  Light,"  all  faded 
successively  in  the  dim  distance,  and  so  I  looked  my 
silent,  sorrowful  farewell. 

The  voyage  was  altogether  very  uncomfortable,  but  I 
do  not  remember  many  of  the  incidents.  I  know  the 
nights  seemed  interminably  long,  as  I  lay  awake,  beside 
my  mother,  in  the  narrow  berth,  and  listened  to  the 
creaking  of  the  rigging,  as  the  wind  whistled  through  it. 
But  that  was  not  all  that  kept  me  wakeful ;  for  I  heard, 
besides,  my  mother's  whispered  prayer. 

I  have  listened  to  prayers,  in  fine  churches,  from  the 
lips  of  men  whose  business  it  is  to  pray.  I  have  heard 
prayers  at  the  blessed  family  altar,  where  were  gathered 
a  happy  band  of  loved  ones ;  sweet,  earnest  prayers,  of 
thankfulness  and  blessing.  I  have  heard  trembling 
souls  plead  at  the  mercy-seat  of  God.  I  have  heard  the 
dying  pray  for  life,  and  the  living  pray  for  death,  as 
though  death  were  the  Lethe  of  forgetfulness. 

But  I  have  never  heard  a  prayer,  or  voice  of  suppli 
cation,  like  my  mother's  whispered  utterances  on  the 
wide  ocean,  in  the  dismal  night,  in  the  narrow  berth  of 
the  cabin  of  that  ship,  bearing  us  from  home,  and 
friends,  and  love.  Her  faith  was  strong,  even  in  the 


18  BERENICE. 

hopeless  darkness  of  that  hour.  It  was  an  agony  of 
prayer  ;  a  prayer  which  Christ  would  pity.  I  was  still 
as  death.  My  mother  thought  I  slept.  She  never  knew 
her  child  was  watching  while  she  prayed. 

Our  vessel  was  but  a  poor  one.  We  sailed  very 
slowly,  and  were  detained  at  a  desolate  and  out-of-the- 
way  port  by  an  adverse  wind.  After  that,  part  of  our 
journey  was  over  land,  and  part  by  boating  upon  a 
river. 

We  had  been  nearly  two  weeks  from  home,  when  my 
mother  received  intelligence  of  my  father's  increased 
illness ;  and  there  was  no  alternative,  —  she  must  go 
back  to  him. 

The  people  with  whom  we  were  stopping  (for  we 
had  not  yet  reached  our  final  destination)  desired  that 
I  might  be  left  with  them.  They  said,  "  She  is  a 
handy  little  girl,  and  will  be  useful  to  tend  the  baby." 

I  believe,  by  the  generally  understood  laws  of  grati 
tude,  they  were  greatly  indebted  to  my  mother's  family 
for  some  favor  rendered  long  enough  before  to  be  for 
gotten. 

The  "  handy  little  girl"  did  not  quite  like  staying 
alone  with  strangers ;  but  she  saw  it  would  be  better  for 


BERENICE.  19 

the  mother  to  go  without  her,  and  so  a  sobbing  consent 
was  given. 

She  left  me,  with  perfect  confidence  that  such  kindly 
care  would  be  extended  as  she  would  have  given  to 
another,  under  like  circumstances,  till  she  could  send  or 
come  for  me. 

All  went  smoothly  for  a  time.  Tasks  were  set  me, 
and  I  accomplished  them.  As  they  were  enlarged,  I 
exerted  myself  to  the  utmost  to  meet  them. 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  my  mother  did  not  return. 

I  watched  long  and  wistfully,  with  my  face  close  to 
the  window-pane,  as  the  twilight  came,  night  after  night, 
until  it  was  too  dark  for  me  to  see  any  longer,  down  the 
dark  way  that  led  to  the  mill,  through  which  she  must 
pass  to  come  to  me.  And  no  tidings  of  her  came  ;  at 
least,  none  were  communicated  to  me.  I  was  busy  out 
of  doors,  helping  to  pile  large  heaps  of  brush-wood 
(always  an  encumbrance  of  new  clearings),  until  it  was 
piled,  and  set  on  fire.  I  enjoyed  the  sport  finely.  But 
it  could  not  last,  and  I  saw,  with  dismay,  that  a  change 
had  coine  over  my  keepers.  I  was  told  that,  if  I  wanted 
bread  to  eat,  I  must  earn  it.  I  felt  ready,  and  willing ; 
but  I  said  to  myself,  ' '  I  am  such  a  little  girl,  what  can 


20  BERENICE. 

I  do?  0  that  my  mother  would  come,  and  take 
me  away ! "  But  for  me  the  warfare  of  life  had 
already  commenced.  I  took  my  place  in  the  ranks, 
unconscious  of  what  was  before  me.  I  had  none  of 
the  consolations  of  companionship  with  those  of  my 
own  age. 

There  were  but  the  two  houses  and  the  mill  for 
miles  around  us.  It  was  a  pretty,  wild  dell ;  and 
the  newly-burnt  land  yielded  its  fruits  almost  with 
out  tillage,  —  simple  productions,  vegetables  and  ber 
ries  of  every  description.  If  I  had  dwelt  there 
alone,  with  those  who  loved  me,  I  could  have  been 
happy  forever.  But  I  pined  for  the  love  I  had  lost, 
and  was  harshly  rebuked.  My  birthday  was  near 
— my  eighth  birthday;  and  I  said,  "Surely,  now  she 
will  come ! " 

It  dawned,  waxed,  waned,  and  set ;  yet  she  did 
not  come. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Dame  Coffin,  my  mistress, 
cut  off  my  curly  hair. 

The  only  beauty  I  could  claim  were  those  glossy 
brown  curls,  which  my  dear  mother  had  taken  such 
pride  in  smoothing  every  day  over  her  slender  white 


BERENICE.  21 

fingers.  I  prized  them,  for  she  had  called  them 
"beautiful,"  and  kissed  my  forehead  when  she  said 
it.  I  thought  it  was  robbing  her  to  take  them  from 
me.  But  the  few  tears  I  dared  to  drop,  in  silent 
pleading,  were  unavailing.  Shears  had  never  touched 
my  locks  before ;  and  it  seemed,  as  they  clashed  in 
my  hair,  that  the  nerves  in  my  neck  were  being 
snipped  one  by  one.  I  was  a  nervous  child ;  my 
long  bright  curls  lay  at  my  feet,  and  I  was  too  sim 
ple  to  know  the  head  from  which  they  had  been 
shorn  would  yield  more ;  and  I  really  felt,  for  a 
little  while,  as  if  my  head  itself  were  off. 

They  took  away  the  tasteful  frocks  belonging  to 
me,  and  dressed  me  in  gowns  made  of  coarse  blue 
checked  cotton,  very  narrow  in  the  skirt,  made,  as  I 
thought  then,  on  purpose  to  make  me  tear  them 
when  I  ran,  in  order  to  have  something  to  scold  me 
for;  but  I  afterwards  discovered  it  was  to  save  cloth. 
And,  worst  of  all  indignities,  I  was  not  allowed  to 
wear  shoes  and  stockings,  except  on  Sundays. 

I  felt  strange  sensations  the  first  time  I  found  my 
self  out  of  doors  barefooted.  But  the  weather  was 
warm,  and  although  I  sometimes  trod  on  sharp 


22  BERENICE. 

stones,  or  a  thorn  pierced  the  tender  flesh,  I  man 
aged  to  wash  off  the  blood  with  my  tears,  and  limp 
away  on  my  various  errands. 

My  tasks  came  to  be  so  many  and  excessive,  that 
I  found  little  time  for  sorrow,  and  less  for  joy.  It 
was  " Berenice,  here  !"  and  "Berenice,  there!"  until 
I  fairly  hated  the  sound  of  my  own  name. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  reader,  how  people  man 
aged  to  sweep  their  floors  before  brooms  were  invented  ? 
I  will  tell  you — and  "  thereby  hangs  a  tale;"  for  in 
that  country  brooms  were  dear.  The  sanded  floors 
were  always  flourished  off  in  waves,  or  shells,  or 
some  odd  fancy,  with  a  large  tuft  of  hemlock  branches, 
tied  neatly  and  strongly  to  a  handle ;  and  a  very  nice 
broom  do  the  boughs  make,  barring  the  scattered 
spiculne,  when  they  become  a  little  crisp  from  use. 

To  me  was  given  the  task  of  gathering  from  the 
woods  branches  of  the  proper  size;  but  I  was  not 
permitted  to  depart  on  my  errand  until  the  work 
was  "  done  up,"  late  in  the  afternoon. 

When  once  amid  the  deep  shade  of  the  wood,  its 
solemn  stillness  filled  me  with  an  indescribable  tranquil 
pleasure.  The  trees  stood  to  me  for  my  familiar 


BERENICE.  23 

friends ;  each  within  a  certain  circle  was  individual 
ized,  and  named  for  some  one  that  I  loved.  I 
talked  to  them,  and  fancy,  in  return,  conjured  the 
sound  of  the  wind  in  their  weaving  tops  into  words  of 
tenderness  and  welcome.  Occupied  with  pleasant  rev 
eries,  I  forgot  the  time,  the  hour,  and  everything  con 
nected  with  the  half-civilized  beings  who  claimed  my 
duty,  when  the  sound  of  my  name,  mingled  with  a 
faint  holloa,  tingled  through  my  ears,  and  aroused  me 
at  once  to  my  situation.  I  was  suddenly  aware  that 
I  was  in  the  woods  ;  that  trees  were  all  around  me, 
and  that  yet  the  boughs  for  my  broom  were  un- 
gathered.  That  sound,  from  some  leather-lunged 
individual,  meant  in  effect,  "  Berenice,  you  good-for- 
nothing  !  come  right  along  this  minute,  with  that 
ere  broom  stuff,  or  you  '11  catch  it  ! " 

In  an  instant  my  songs  and  converse  with  the 
trees  were  hushed :  and,  with  hurried  scramblings,  I 
tore  from  my  stately  friends  a  few  of  their  branch 
ing  honors,  and,  forcing  my  way  through  the  mazes 
of  underbrush,  I  stood,  panting  and  frightened,  in  the 
presence  of  Dame  Coffin.  My  trophies  were  exam 
ined.  Ah,  luckless  child!  I  had  "wasted  the  time 


24  BERENICE. 

in  play."  There  was  "nothing  fit  for  a  broom!" 
I  was  scolded  for  an  idle  hussy,  and  the  branches 
were  whipped  about  me  until  there  was  nothing  left 
but  broken  twigs.  And  so  I  must  go  back  dis 
graced,  blinded  with  tears,  choking  with  sobs.  Thus 
I  retraced  the  path  to  my  only  friends. 

It  certainly  was  an  error  to  allow  pleasure  to  hin 
der  me  from  duty. 

My  daily  routine  embraced  a  great  variety  of  occu 
pations  ;  bringing  water  from  the  spring  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  at  some  little  distance  from  the  house ;  dig 
ging  potatoes  for  the  pigs  and  people,  which  was  in 
itself  no  small  amount  of  labor ;  tending  the  baby — 
a  nice,  plump  child,  of  a  year  old,  whom  I  dearly 
loved ;  watching,  not  only  our  sheep,  but  those  of 
neighbors,  to  keep  them  out  of  the  cultivated  fields ; 
and,  while  at  this  last  task,  I  was  expected  to  do 
double  duty  in  the  shape  of  knitting  socks  for  the 
good  man  of  the  house. 

Besides  this,  certain  tasks  were  set  me,  to  be  fin 
ished  before  sunset ;  otherwise,  I  should  go  supper- 
less  to  bed.  It  was  well  to  keep  me  busy,  but  cruel 
to  visit  my  shortcomings  so  severely. 


BERENICE,  25 

Two  several  times  I  was  whipped.  Once  for  the 
falsehood  of  our  neighbor's  boy  •  the  second  and  last, 
for  tearing  a  handful  of  hair  from  my  own  head, 
in  a  fit  of  passion. 

I  had  been  commanded,  in  an  ungentle  voice,  to 
perform  what  I  conceived  to  be  a  degrading  act. 
My  pride  rebelled.  I  did  their  bidding,  but  hated 
myself  for  having  submitted;  and,  twisting  my  hand 
in  my  hair,  I  tore  out  and  threw  a  handful  on  the 
floor. 

It  was  a  challenge  for  an  encounter  in  which  I 
knew  the  odds  would  be  fearfully  against  me.  But 
a  spirit  of  daring  possessed  me  for  the  moment. 
I  cared  not  what  might  follow.  I  felt  insulted. 
Young  as  I  was,  my  heart  was  swelling  with  con 
tempt  of  the  authority  to  which  I  must  submit. 
"There  I  maddened."  The  woman  seized  the  hair 
with  furious  joy;  and,  as  she  rushed  out  of  doors, 
I  anticipated  my  doom.  She  quickly  returned  with 
a  stout  willow  rod ;  and,  seizing  me  firmly  by  the 
wrist,  left  me  the  liberty  of  swinging  about  at  the 
length  of  our  two  arms  distant  from*  her  person, 
while  she  showered  the  blows  on  my  bare  neck  and 
3 


26  BERENICE. 

arms,  I  little  dreamed  there  was  in  reserve  for  me 
what  would  make  the  rest  unfelt.  I  shrieked,  "My 
mother  !  I  will  tell  her  that  you  have  beaten  me !  " 
"No  you  won't;  for  she  is  dead!  I  have  been 
waiting  for  a  good  chance  to  tell  you ;  and  now  is 
the  time." 

The  willow  withe  whistled  in  the  air,  and  fell 
again  on  my  writhing  flesh  ;  but  I  did  not  feel  it.  I 
sank  on  my  knees,  lifting  my  arms,  blue  with  the 
wales  raised  by  the  rod,  and  said,  "  Then  she  is  in 
heaven,  and  she  will  take  me  from  you.  You  dare 
not  beat  me  again  !  " 

The  woman  said  not  a  word,  but,  turning,  went 
out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  gently  after  her. 
And  there  I  sat  in  the  dusky  evening ;  not  a  tear 
dropped  from  my  fixed  eyes.  I  recalled  the  image 
of  my  mother's  pale,  thin  cheeks.  I  could  not  bear 
to  believe  her  dead.  I  tried  to  think,  "What  is  it 
to  be  dead?" 

I  once  had  seen  a  little  playmate  in  her  coffin, 
and  they  told  me  she  was  dead.  I  could  not  see 
how  it  differed  from  sleep.  But  I  saw  them  place 
her  in  the  dark  and  lonely  tomb,  and  I  knew  that 


BERENICE.  27 

she  was  very  cold.  Another  thing  puzzled  me.  One 
day,  when  I  lived  with  my  parents,  I  saw  some 
children  weeping  bitterly. 

"What  ails  you?"  I  said. 

"Our  mother  is  dead,"  they  replied;  and  now 
"My  mother  is  dead,"  I  thought,  "and  I  cannot 
cry.  Did  they  love  their  mother  more  than  I  mine?" 

Then  I  pictured  the  room  at  home,  and  she  lying 
there,  still  and  cold,  like  little  Florence  in  her  last 
sleep.  The  image  grew  vivid.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  stood  in  the  well-remembered  place.  There  my 
mother  lay  before  me ;  but  to  all  my  askings  she 
answered  not  a  word.  And  then  I  longed  to  touch 
her,  but  could  not  stir.  I  knew  that  tears  would 
cool  my  burning  eyes,  if  I  could  but  rest  a  finger 
on  my  mother's  cold  brow.  I  tried  to  drag  myself 
forward ;  but  something  held  me  back.  Then  I  re 
lapsed  into  strange  quiescence,  and  sat  quite  still, 
thinking,  "  How  do  they  know  she  is  dead?"  "How 
dare  they  fold  her  away  in  the  dark,  and  say  she  is 
dead?" 

The  word  had  a  new  and  awful  significance.  I 
spelled  it  over  and  over  again,  but  I  could  not  fathom 


28  BERENICE. 

the  sense.  It  rang  through  the  arches  of  thought, 
away  in  interminable  vistas  of  forever  and  ever.  I 
was  baffled,  brain-weary,  and  I  sank  into  a  state  of 
torpor.  Then  I  saw  a  vision  that  to  me  was  a  reality. 
It  has  comforted  me  through  life. 

I  saw  that  the  last  day  had  come,*  and  the  great 
hour  of  the  separation  of  the  goats  from  the  sheep ; 
of  the  just  from  the  unjust.  The  holy  Jesus  had 
come  to  judge  the  world.  I  saw  him  gloriously 
arrayed ;  his  face  unlike  the  pictures  I  had  seen.  I 
cannot  describe  it.  It  was  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
the  paleness  of  the  moon,  and  the  flashing  of  star- 
like  rays,  that  combined  to  make  it  so  beautiful. 

I  thought  that,  taking  me  in  his  arms,  and  lift 
ing  me  above  the  multitude  gathered  around,  he  said, 
"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me ;  for  of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  and  then  he  placed  me 
beside  my  mother.  I  did  not  know  where ;  but  it 
was  light,  and  warm,  and  blissful,  and  my  mother's 
kiss  brought  the  tears  in  a  perfect  gush  to  my  eyes. 
I  wondered  that  I  wept  when  I  was  so  happy. 

I  asked  her  to  beg  the  good  Lord  that  I  might 
stay  with  her.  She  gently  replied, —  and  there  could 


BERENICE.  2 

not  be  sweeter  music  than  her  voice, —  "All   will   be 
well !  "    and  the  vision  faded  from  my  sight. 

I  never  breathed  her  name  to  those  who  so  cruelly 
apprized  me  of  her  death.  But  there  was  no  more 
anger  in  my  grieved  heart.  They  might  have  trod 
den  me  under  foot;  I  should  not  have  resented  it. 


CHAPTER    III. 

ONE  day  in  the  week  was  mine, —  all  my  own.  I 
had  liberty  to  go  where  I  pleased,  and  do  what  I  liked. 
That  day  was  the  Sabbath.  There  was  no  divine 
worship  within  boating  distance ;  and  no  mission- 
preacher  ever  found  our  small  colony  in  the  midst 
of  the  eastern  wilds.  So  I  strolled  about  in  the 
woods,  singing  hymns  my  mother  had  taught  me  at 
our  own  fireside ;  or,  taking  my  testament,  I  sat  down 
on  the  beach,  to  watch  the  coming  in  of  the  tide, 
and  read  the  "Revelations,"  then  my  favorite  study. 
Or  I  went  to  the  spring  in  the  dell,  and  laughed  at 
the  crop-haired  little  blackamoor  grinning  back  at 
me  from  its  smooth  mirror.  And  then,  to  make 
myself  more  hideous,  I  wove  garlands  of  the  wild 
flowers  and  leaves  growing  about  its  borders,  and 
twined  them  about  my  sunburnt  face,  and  laughed 
again  at  the  tawny  smiler  in  the  spring. 


BERENICE.  31 

I  knew  it  was  myself,  and  yet  felt  as  though  it 
must  be  somebody  else.  Then  I  would  hunt  the  four- 
leaved  clover;  and,  when  it  was  found,  Avould  wish  — 
wish  —  I  hardly  knew  what  to  wish;  but  that  some 
body  who  loved  me  would  come  and  take  me  home 
—  home  I  And,  then,  the  thought  of  my  old  home, 
of  my  parents,  would  make  me  so  sad,  I  would  go 
down  to  the  sea  again,  and  watch  the  great  waves 
tumbling  the  seaweed  on  the  shore.  A  little  way 
down  the  bank  stood  a  tree,  half  shivered  by  some 
furious  storm,  and  half  of  it  was  green  ;  but,  on  the 
bare  and  ghastly  limb,  which  seemed  just  breaking 
from  the  parent  stem,  a  gray  old  eagle  rocked  quite 
at  his  ease,  and  I  thought  he  looked  at  me,  and  felt 
quite  sure  he  was  defying  me  to  look  into  the  face 
of  the  sun,  as  he  could  do.  But  I  was  not  to  be 
defied.  So  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  glare  of  the 
fiery  luminary  with  the  utmost  bravado.  I  wonder 
now  that  it  did  not  injure  my  sight.  Thus  I  took 
lessons  in  sun-gazing  from  the  eagle.  There  is  not  a 
doubt  but  he  intended  carrying  me  off,  and  was  making 
up  his  mind  as  to  his  chances  of  success,  considering 
my  weight  and  his  own  strength  of  beak  and  talori. 


32  BERENICE. 

As  the  feat  was  not  undertaken,  I  suppose  he  finally 
thought  me  too  heavy ;  perhaps  he  felt  too  much 
sympathy  with  a  being  as  wild  and  solitary  as  him 
self. 

The  season  of  sunshine,  and  flowers,  and  bird-songs, 
went  by ;  and  no  one  who  loved  me  came  to  take 
me  away,  for  all  my  wishing. 

The  balm  of  Gilead  trees  yielded  no  more  their 
pleasant  odor,  and  the  scentless  air  pined  for  the  lost 
fragrance.  The  chilly  winds  piped  drearily  in  the 
night-time  through  the  chinks  of  the  half- finished 
dwelling.  The  later  autumn  days  came,  and  brought 
with  them  the  sharp  frosts  so  common  in  that  north 
eastern  corner  of  the  world. 

0  the  frosty  mornings !  What  a  thick  white  coat 
covered  the  earth !  How  my  bare  feet  ached  with 
the  cold ;  and  how  I  stopped,  on  my  way  to  the 
spring,  and  turned  over  the  pine  chips,  lying  in  the- 
path,  and  stood  on  "  the  warm  side,"  as  I  called  it, 
to  ease  the  smart  for  a  moment !  When  the  snow 
came,  they  gave  me  some  heavy,  stiff  shoes  to  wear, 
without  stockings ;  and  all  through  the  long,  cold 
winter  I  slept  in  the  comfortless  loft,  with  a  scanty 


BERENICE.  33 

allowance  of  bedding, —  I,  who  had  never  before 
slept  out  of  my  mother's  bosom ! 

I  approve  of  children's  being  plainly  fed,  but  I 
did  not  approve  of  the  method  in  which  my  sup 
pers  were  served  :  a  bowl  of  hot  water  and  molasses, 
with  coarse  bread  made  of  musty  meal ;  and,  to  make 
it  more  unpalatable,  it  was  frequently  spiced  with 
"spills"  from  a  twig  of  the  hemlock  broom  which 
Dame  Coffin  thrust  into  the  nose  of  the  tea-kettle 
before  pouring  the  water  into  my  bowl. 

She  gave,  as  an  excuse  for  this,  that  there  was 
<c  something  in  the  spout  of  the  plaguy  thing ! " 
There  certainly  was  "something  in  it"  afterwards,  of 
which  I  had  the  full  benefit, —  a  nauseous  mixture. 
If  I  refused  to  eat  I  was  called  sulky  and  stubborn, 
and  told  that  I  could  have  nothing  until  that  was 
eaten.  So  I  gulped  down  the  villa-nous  compound 
with  wordless  haste.  That  done,  I  was  hurried  away 
into  the  cellar  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  with 
a  very  dull  light  in  a  little  black  lamp.  There  lay 
the  crowning  labor  of  the  day. 

To  the  dainty  mother,  who  clasps  in  her  soft 
palm  the  rosy  fingers  of  her  gentle,  bright-eyed  girl, 


34  BERENICE. 

I  will  say,  prepare  for  a  slight  shock  to  your  refine 
ment  of  feeling. 

To  her  who  steals  to  the  nursery  to  feast  her  eyes 
on  the  new-born  treasure,  lulled  in  the  almost  breath 
less  sleep  of  infancy, —  so  still,  that  the  mother's  heart 
pauses  in  its  beatings,  while  her  ear  is  bent  hastily  to 
the  little,  dimpled  face  for  assurance  that  the  precious 
thing  is  breathing  at  all, —  I  would  say,  if  you  could 
not  bear  for  your  child  so  stern  a  change,  from  that 
calm  sleep,  beneath  your  watchful  eyes,  to  wrong, 
neglect  and  suffering  among  the  careless  arid  cold- 
hearted,  then  let  your  heart  warm  to  the  motherless 
children,  the  tattered  wanderers,  begging  from  door 
to  door  for  bread.  For,  if  from  the  accident  of  birth, 
they  never  may  have  known  a  mother's  tenderness, 
so  much  the  more  they  need  it  now.  In  every  soul, 
however  blinded  or  degraded  chance  may  have  made 
it,  there  is  still  a  yearning  for  sympathy,  a  love  for 
the  beautiful  and  true.  A  few  kind  thoughts,  instead 
of  a  scornful  crust,  the  beggar's  usual  dole,  may  be 
food  and  clothing  to  the  famished  heart. 

To  the  mother,  in  faded  weeds,  regarding  with 
mournful  solicitude  the  slender,  hollow-cheeked  girl, 


BERENICE.  35 

she  leads  by  the  hand  to  "the  place"  she  has  got 
for  her,  with  a  family  that  will  be  "very  kind  to 
the  child:" — poor  woman,  almost  stifling  with  con 
cealed  grief,  your  widowed  heart  has  learned  it  can 
bear  another  pang,  and  yet  not  break.  Sister  in 
sorrow  !  my  tears  answer  yours.  To  you  I  will  say, 
Prepare  for  a  possible  coincidence ! 

I  had  helped  to  plant,  and  helped  to  dig;  and  now 
I  must  assort  the  potatoes,  separating  the  large  from 
the  small,  the  good  from  the  bad.  This  was  my 
employment  through  many  of  the  long  winter  even 
ings.  But  there  comes  an  end  to  all  things  in  time ; 
and  my  last  night  in  the  lonesome  cellar  came. 

I  had  been  busy  all  day;  much  of  the  time  out 
in  the  bleak  wind. 

It  was  nightfall,  and  I  was  pacing  the  room  with 
the  little  child  in  my  arms,  singing  it  to  sleep. 

The  mother  of  Dame  Coffin  sat  watching  me  over 
her  spectacles ;  at  length  she  said : 

"Berenice,  a'n't  you  tired?" 

"  No,"  I  replied,  surprised  at  the  kindness  of 
her  voice,  as  she  made  the  unusual  inquiry;  " I  am 
never  tired,  so  long  as  I  can  do  any  good." 


36  BERENICE. 

The  aged  woman  gave  me  a  slight  smile  of  ap 
proval,  and  said: 

"I  have  counted  thirty  pails  of  water  you  have 
brought  from  the  spring  to-day;  and  I  thought  you 
might  feel  tired;"  and  she  sighed  as  though  the 
thought  tired  her. 

I  felt  glad  that  anybody  thought  I  had  a  right 
to  weariness ;  but,  by  that  token,  I  felt  sadder.  I 
laid  the  little  child  in  the  cradle,  and  took  the  lamp 
to  go  to  my  evening's  work.  I  felt  sick  and  dizzy. 
I  laid  my  hand  on  the  latch,  then  turned  again  to 
look  in  the  face  of  the  only  human  being  there  who 
seemed  to  appreciate  my  industry.  A  great  cry 
arose  in  my  heart  for  compassion,  for  love  and  tender 
ness.  There  was  none  for  me.  My  mute  appeal 
was  unheeded.  That  withered  woman  plied  her  knit 
ting-needles,  and  jogged  the  cradle,  without  even  so 
much  as  lifting  her  head,  or  in  any  way  noticing  that 
I  was  watching  her. 

Lifting  the  wooden  latch,  I  stepped  down  the  cel 
lar-stairs,  and  commenced  my  toil.  But  the  hands 
did  not  move  with  their  usual  alacrity,  and  at  length 
ceased.  The  machine  was  overwrought.  The  spirit 


BERENICE.  37 

was  willing,  but  the  muscles  rebelled.  I  had  a  strange 
feeling  in  my  head,  and  it  was  burning  hot.  I 
thought  of  my  mother ;  and,  for  the  first  time  since 
I  had  so  rudely  learned  her  death,  tears  and  sobs 
came  to  my  relief. 

Very  sad  are  the  tears  of  the  young.  Sad  is 
the  choking  sob  from  youth,  when  expedience  or 
necessity  causes  the  severing,  for  a  space,  of  the  dear 
home  ties.  In  some  cases  the  heart  grows  tenderer 
and  stronger  than  before ;  but  in  others,  when  stern 
ness  checks  the  warm  current  too  suddenly,  the  soil 
becomes  arid,  yielding  no  more  the  heavenly  manna. 

Fearful  are  the  sobbings  of  young  children ;  the 
sensitive,  feeble  children,  feeling  as  keenly  as  those 
far  beyond  them  in  years,  yet  wanting  strength  to 
contend  with  the  waves  in  the  turbulent  ocean  of 
feeling. 

Fathers  and  mothers,  watch  well  over  the  first  storm 
that  shakes  the  young  flowers  in  your  garden  of 
love. 

I  rested  my  hot  and  beating  head  on  the  edge  of 
the  potato-bin,  and  so  fell  asleep. 

My  next  recollections  were  of  some  one,  with  strong 
4 


38  BERENICE. 

arms,  taking  me  up  stairs,  and  placing  me  in  a  warm 
bed.  There  was  a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  and 
a  light  was  on  the  table ;  and  I  knew  it  was  Dame 
Coffin's  room,  but  felt  too  sick  to  be  surprised. 

I  was  ill  and  feverish  several  days,  perhaps  weeks; 
for  I  scarcely  knew  how  time  went  by,  except  by  the 
recurrence  of  Sundays. 

After  I  got  well  I  was  better  cared  for,  and  they 
were  all  kinder  to  me  than  before. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

I  HAD  been  at  the  settlement  nearly  a  year  and 
a  half,  when  one  day  I  discovered  several  persons 
coming  up  to  the  house,  by  the  mill-path,  —  the  path 
I  had  watched  so  earnestly,  in  the  earlier  months 
of  my  exile,  for  my  mother.  But  I  had  long  ceased 
to  hope  that  anybody  loved  me  now ;  and  so  I  told 
Dame  Coffin  of  the  rare  sight. 

"Look,"  said  I,  "there  are  people  coming!  Who 
are  they?" 

She  glanced  out  of  the  window,  then,  turning  to 
me,  she  said  abruptly : 

"I  don't  know;  but  it  is  somebody  coming  here. 
You  a' n't  fit  to  be  seen.  Run  away  out  to  the 
barn,  and  hide  yourself." 

I  was  ragged  and  dirty,  but  I  did  not  care  for 
that.  There  was  something  in  the  dame's  manner, 
her  hurry  and  confusion,  that  made  me  suspicious  of 


40  BERENICE. 

her,  and  it  flashed  on  my  mind  that  these  persons 
were  coming  for  me ;  that  Dame  Coffin  knew  it, 
and  wished  to  get  me  out  of  the  way  for  that,  and 
not  because  of  my  tangled  hair  and  ragged  frock  : 
and  so  I  stood  thinking,  and  staring  at  her. 

"Why  don't  you  start,  stupid?"  said  she,  angrily, 
stamping  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

I  waited  not  another  bidding,  but  dashed  out  of 
the  back  door,  and  then  round,  by  a  short  cut,  to 
the  front,  and  confronted  the  party  knocking  there 
for  admission. 

A  lady  was  among  them,  whom,  in  an  instant,  I 
knew,  from  her  resemblance  to  my  mother,  to  be 
the  dear  Aunt  Clare  whose  name  was  almost  as 
familiar  to  me  as  that  of  mother.  I  sprang  forward, 
and,  throwing  my  arms  around  her,  looked  up  in  her 
face,  and  screamed  out,  in  my  excitement, 

"  Aunt   Clare  !    Aunt   Clare  !  " 

She  looked  shocked,  as  well  she  might,  to  be  so 
unceremoniously  claimed  by  a  frantic  little  brown 
girl. 

Now  the  dame  had  got  to  the  door,  and  opened 
it,  and  was  inviting  the  visitors  to  walk  in. 


BERENICE.  41 

Aunt  Clare  held  me  out  at  arm's  length,  and  said 
severely  to  the  dame : 

"Is   this   the   child   of  Madame    De  Thou  ?  " 

I  shrieked  out,  "  0,  yes,  yes!  I  am  Berenice 
De  Thou  !  and  I  have  wished,  0,  ever  so  long,  that 
somebody  who  loved  me  would  come  and  take  me 
away  from  —  from  —  this ' ' 

At  that  instant  I  met  the  furious  eyes  of  Dame 
Coffin,  and  the  words  froze  in  my  throat.  If  I  had 
been  instantly  bow-strung,  I  could  not  have  been 
more  silent. 

Aunt  Clare  turned  to  one  of  her  companions, 
and  said,  "  She  screeches  like  a  wild  bird  when  she 
speaks,  and  is  a  perfect  fright,  every  way.  But  I 
shall  take  her  with  me  for  all  that." 

"  Of  course  you  will,  "  said  the  gentleman.  "  She 
will  do  to  label  bottles,  and  attend  me  in  the  labora 
tory.  Such  an  impish-looking  young  one!" 

He  did  not  give  me  credit  for  my  sharp  ears. 
My  aunt  laughed,  but  I  could  not  see  the  joke,  and 
felt  rather  offended.  But  I  secretly  thought  he  looked 
like  the  picture  of  Apollyon,  in  the  Pilgrim's  Pro 
gress,  only  much  handsomer. 


42  BERENICE. 

There  was  a  deal  of  grumbling  and  objection  made 
by  Dame  Coffin  to  my  being  taken  away.  She  de 
clared  my  mother  had  given  me  to  her  until  I  should 
be  eighteen  years  of  age.  But  my  aunt  was  firm, 
and  carried  me  off  with  her. 

I  believe  I  slept  nearly  all  the  journey,  for  I  can 
never  recall  any  incidents,  after  the  first  few  hours, 
when  we  travelled  on  horseback ;  and  that,  being  a 
novel  method  of  getting  over  the  ground,  kept  me 
wakeful  and  interested.  Although  I  had  not  a  horse 
all  to  myself,  I  was  more  comfortable ;  for  the  gen 
tleman  who  looked  like  Apollyon  carried  me  on  the 
saddle  before  him,  and  protected  me  with  tenderest 
care,  until  I  quite  forgot  my  first  impression.  Yet 
I  told  him  very  frankly  what  I  did  think  ;  but  added 
that  now  I  believed  him  to  be  the  best  man  in  the 
world,  except  my  father.  "But,"  said  I,  "I  do  not 
know  your  name." 

"Dr.  Gaston  Wilberforce,  at  your  service,  Miss 
DeThou,"  he  laughingly  replied.  "But  you  may 
call  me  Gaston." 

"Why?"    said   I. 

"0,  they  all  call  me  so  at  home,  where  you  are  going." 


BERENICE.  48 

"  Then   I   shall   not   call   you   so,"  I  said. 

"  What  will  you  call  me,  little  Brownie  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  will  call  you  Dr.  Gaston.  I  like  that  name 
best ;  but  I  like  to  call  you  Doctor  most  of  all, 
because  it  seems  to  me  grand-sounding,  and  as  though 
you  must  know  a  great  deal." 

"  So,  if  I  don't  happen  to  come  up  to  your  ideal, 
little  Brownie,  I  suppose  you  will  cross  me  out  of 
your  books  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Berenice.  It  is  a  better  name  than 
i little  Brownie.'  I  don't  know  just  what  you  mean; 
but  I  ha' n't  a  book  in  the  world  of  my  own,  though 
I  did  have  some  once,  that  my  father  gave  me. 
Do  you  know  my  father?"  said  I,  a  sudden  hope 
seizing  me  that  perhaps  I  might  meet  him  soon. 

"  No,  Berenice,  I   have   never   seen   your  father." 

' '  Let  me  ask  Aunt  Clare  where  my  father  is ;  and 
if  I  can  see  him  soon." 

"No,"  said  my  companion.  "Do  you  remember 
that  you  promised  to  be  his  little  philosopher?" 

"  Yes.  How  did  you  know  that,  if  you  do  not 
know  him?"  said  I,  eagerly. 

"  It   was  written   in   a  letter   to  Aunt  Clare ;    and 


44  BERENICE. 

I  thought  it  was  a  great  promise  for  a  little  girl 
to  make.  Now  I  will  see  if  you  can  keep  it.  You 
must  not  speak  of  your  father  to  any  one  at  pres 
ent.  He  is  very  sick  here;"  and  he  touched  his 
forehead  as  he  spoke.  "  He  is  sent  to  an  asylum, 
a  place  where  people  are  put  to  be  cured  —  to  be 
got  well,  if  possible;  and  it  would  make  him  worse 
to  see  his  little  daughter.  So,  you  see,  Berenice, 
if  he  gets  well,  Aunt  Clare  will  tell  you.  But  she 
does  not  like  to  talk  about  it;  and  you  may  talk 
to  me  when  you  wish  to  speak  to  any  one  of  your 
father." 

"  Is  —  my  —  father  crazy  because  my  mother  is 
dead?"  I  could  hardly  ask,  for  the  tears  were  stifling 
me. 

"They  say  so,  Berenice." 

"  And  can  I  never,  never  see  him  any  more  ?  0, 
I  am  sure  I  could  comfort  him,  I  love  him  so 
dearly  !  » 

"  You  will  comfort  him  best  by  being  a  sensible, 
good  girl,  and  his  little  philosopher,  as  you  prom 
ised." 

I  felt   very   sorrowful.      It  was   a  strange  sorrow 


BERENICE.  45 

for  a  child  to  meet  —  stranger  than  death.  1  thought 
of  it  a  while  in  silence,  but  it  tried  me  so  much 
that  I  could  not  think  any  more. 

I   was   finally   settled    in   my  aunt's  house,   and   I 
called   it   home. 


CHAPTER    V. 

AUNT  and  Uncle  Clare  lived  in  a  great,  old-fash 
ioned  farm-house,  in  the  pleasant  town  of  Lealands. 
My  uncle  was  a  farmer.;  not  a  gentleman-farmer, 
though  a  gentleman  and  a  farmer,  but  a  man  who 
left  the  print  of  his  foot  in  every  newly-turned  fur 
row,  and  saw  the  work  of  his  hand  smiling  at  him 
from  every  clod  "climbing  up  to  a  soul,"  in  each 
blade  of  grass,  and 

"  Wee  modest  crimson-tippet  flower." 

"  Berenice,"  said  my  aunt  to  me  one  day,  when  we 
had  been  at  home  about  three  months,  "  now  we 
have  got  the  brown  off  a  little,  I  think  you  may  go 
to  school.  You  will  there  find  companions  of  your 
own  age,  and  enjoy  yourself  better  for  the  change." 

To  school  I  went.  It  was  a  long,  lonely  walk ; 
but  I  sung  all  the  way  the  merriest  songs,  and  mim- 


BERENICE.  47 

icked  the  birds  in  their  various  notes,  till  they  grew 
familiar,  and  would  answer  me  back  from  their  leafy 
coverts. 

I  was  very  soon  queen-bee  in  the  hive  of  busy 
students  at  school,  and  loved  my  companions  warmly ; 
and  I  am  sure  they  loved  me,  if  I  may  judge  from 
the  gentle  acts  of  kindness  so  often  rendered. 

Our  teacher  was  careful  and  painstaking ;  and  we 
throve  finely  ;  and  "  the  committee  "  were  very  gracious 
on  examination-day. 

But  the  most  delightful  portion  of  my  time  was 
that  spent  with  Dr.  Gaston.  His  home  was  with  my 
uncle,  whose  half-brother  he  was.  Whenever  the 
thought  of  my  orphanhood  came  sadly  over  me,  I  could 
fly  to  him  for  comfort,  or  for  some  tidings  of  my  poor 
father.  That  was  the  only  point  on  which  I  dared  be 
free  with  him. 

A  strange  man  to  me  then  seemed  Dr.  Gaston 
Wilberforce, —  a  man  of  awe.  My  aunt  had  given  me 
the  care  of  his  apartments  to  sweep,  dust,  and  keep 
them  in  general  order.  The  doctor  had  a  morbid 
antipathy  to  cleanliness,  a  chronic  affection  for  dust 
and  cobwebs,  but  he  said : 


48  BERENICE. 

"Berenice  is  careful  not  to  displace  anything; 
handy,  too,  and  the  least  objectionable  person  that 
can  come  into  my  rooms  when  I  am  away."  For 
the  doctor  was  a  practising  physician,  and  skilful 
besides.  I  felt  quite  sure,  in  my  own  mind,  that 
nobody  would  ever  die  if  they  sent  for  him  soon 
enough. 

Within  the  laboratory  I  seldom  ventured  unbidden 
when  the  doctor  was  out.  Yet  it  was  a  room  in 
which  I  loved  to  linger,  for  the  curious  things  inter 
ested  me.  After  all,  it  was  not  a  regular  laboratory ; 
although,  as  I  came  to  suppose,  the  doctor  did  try  to 
find  the  "philosopher's  stone,"  or  at  least  to  discover 
the  ingredients  of  the  far-famed  elixir  vitse.  It  was 
rather  a  museum  of  oddities.  There  were  preserved 
monsters  in  glass  vessels;  and  other  crystals  were 
filled  with  fluids  of  various  colors ;  bottles  and  vials, 
of  antique  shape,  were  shut  up  in  cabinets  with 
glass  doors,  and  carefully  locked ;  outlandish  jars,  and 
vases  of  rare  workmanship,  with  singular  devices 
graven  on  them,  which  fearfully  suggested  to  me  the 
probable  residences  of  "bottle-imps,"  were  also  there. 
In  one  dim  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  dark  wooden 


BERENICE.  49 

case,  in  which  hung  a  perfect  human  skeleton,  glitter 
ing  white  and  ghastly  in  the  uncertain  light,  for  the 
windows  were  narrow  and  heavily  curtained.  Just 
over  this  case  a  huge  vampire  bat  hung  upon  the 
wall,  and  excited  my  especial  wonder.  Most  of  these 
things  Dr.  Gaston  had  brought  with  him  with  great 
care  from  his  foreign  travels. 

From  the  ceiling  hung  a  curious  lamp,  bronze  and 
quaint,  swinging  from,  triple  chains,  in  which  were 
interlinked  a  succession  of  little  silver  hands,  most  del 
icately  formed,  clasping  each  other  firmly,  and  holding 
at  the  corners  the  tripod-shaped  rim  in  which  the  lamp 
was  set.  It  was  the  only  artificial  light  ever  allowed 
in  the  apartment.  The  doctor  always  trimmed  it  him 
self.  The  oil  that  fed  it  "  smelt  ambrosially,"  and 
the  heavily-scented  air  made  me  sleepy  if  I  staid  in 
the  room  long  when  it  was  lighted. 

There  was,  likewise,  a  small  case  of  books,  won 
derfully  old  and  dilapidated,  attractive,  no  doubt  from 
their  great  antiquity,  as  well  as  the  remarkable  and 
to  me  unintelligible  signs  and  characters  which  I 
thirsted  to  comprehend.  Then  the  furnace,  black  and 
grimy,  with  skillets,  crucibles  and  other  apparatus  of 
5 


50  BERENICE. 

chemistry,  stood  there,  complete  and  ready,  whenever 
an  erratic  fancy  might  tempt  the  master  to  his 
unavailing  search  to  realize  the  dreams  of  sages. 

"0,  mickle  is  the  powerful  grace  that  lies 

In  herbs,  plants,  stones,  and  their  true  qualities  !  " 

And  he  knew  them  all.  He  was  deified  to  me  as 
master  of  the  great  mysteries  and  sciences  to  which 
man  can  attain. 

Gaston  Wilberforce  had  spent  many  years  abroad 
before  entering  on  the  duties  of  his  profession;  and, 
perhaps,  he  was  a  wiser  man  for  his  foreign  research. 
He  was,  certainly,  a  rare  student,  and  an  earnest 
seeker  after  the  secrets  of  nature. 

I  was  one  day  about  leaving  his  room,  after  put 
ting  everything  in  nice  order,  when  he  called  me 
back. 

"  Berenice,  I  am  going  to  work  in  the  laboratory 
to-night,  and  want  your  help  to  fan  the  coals,  and 
hold  various  articles  for  me  while  I  am  at  work. 
But  the  compound  may  explode,  and  then  you  would 
be  blown  up?  Are  you  afraid,  little  Brownie?" 

I  did   not  care    now    for  his    calling    me   "Little 


BERENICE.  51 

Brownie;"  so  I  answered,  "My  life  will  be  as  safe 
as  yours." 

"Good!"  said  the  doctor;  "and,  to  reward  you, 
if  we  are  not  blown  up  to-night,  I  will  commence 
teaching  you  Latin  to-morrow." 

Evening  came,  and  I  repaired  to  Dr.  Gaston's 
room,  eager  to  do  anything  to  oblige  him. 

"Now,  little  Brownie,  draw  that  stool  forward  to 
the  furnace,  and  fan  the  coals  lightly,  while  I  get 
ready  my  simples." 

I  did  as  he  bade  me ;  and,  as  I  sat  busy,  yet 
watching  his  every  motion,  I  wondered  why  I  had 
never  thought  to  ask  him  to  cure  my  father ;  and  I 
abruptly  put  the  question,  "  Why  cannot  you  make 
my  father  well  ?  " 

"Not  because  I  have  not  thought  about  it,  little 
Brownie,"  said  he;  "not  because  I  have  not  visited 
him,  and  ascertained,  what  I  fear  is  the  truth  beyond 
a  doubt,  that  his  insanity  is  incurable." 

"Have  you  seen  my  father?  Does  he  suffer 
much  ?  Is  his  body  sick  as  is  his  mind  ?  " 

"  The  state  of  the  bodily  health  is  always  depend 
ent  on  the  mental." 


52  BERENICE. 

"What  is  insanity?"  I  asked,  in  a  sudden  fit  of 
perplexity. 

"Who  can  tell?  We  only  know  that  the  dual 
brain  loses  its  harmony  of  connection ;  that  one  por 
tion  becomes  excessively  irritable  and  excited,  while 
another  is  in  a  state  of  torpid  repose ;  or  the 
peculiar  properties  of  mind  show  themselves  out 
wardly  in  absurdities.  Some  argue  that  the  cause 
is  seated  in  the  blood-vessels  of  the  brain,  from  ap 
pearances  after  death.  But  who  can  assert  that  the 
condition  of  the  vessels  by  that  struggle  is  not  so 
materially  and  instantaneously  changed,  that  we  cannot 
with  certainty  judge  of  their  immediately  preceding 
state?  Science  is  at  fault."  continued  he,  as  if  talk 
ing  to  himself;  "  the  deepest  research  finds  no  remedy 
nor  control  for  some  diseases.  Science  !  is  it  a  name  ? 
Nay ;  medicine  is  more  an  art  than  a  science.  Can  that 
be  called  a  science  which,  after  ages  of  profound  study 
and  practice  on  the  broadest  principles,  and  by  the 
most  cultivated  intellects,  still  leaves  us  in  doubt  of 
the  end?  The  wisest  and  most  erudite  master  in 
drugs  and  minerals  is  never  sure  of  the  results  from 
application  to  the  human  system.  It  is  all  experi- 


BERENICE.  53 

mental  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  —  a  baffling  mys 
tery." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  we  sat  in  silence, —  the 
stern,  dark  man,  who  had  been  reasoning  of  Nature's 
mysterious  methods  and  the  inefficiency  of  art,  and 
the  young  girl  sorrowing  for  her  stricken  father. 

The  embers  cast  a  ruddy  glow  here  and  there,  and 
the  shadows  fell  darkly  through  the  room.  But  ghast 
liest  of  all  was  the  skeleton  in  the  ebony  case,  gleam 
ing  whitely  in  the  flickering  light. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers  persons." 

TIME  led  me  indifferently  along  through  two  years 
in  my  new  home  at  Lealands.  I  had  many  friends 
at  school;  but  those  I  cared  for  most,  invariably 
loved  me  least. 

What  wonder  if,  as  my  nature  had  received  so  rude 
a  shock,  I  did  possess  more  demon  than  divinity? 
In  fact,  though  I  did  not  mean  to  do  anything 
wrong,  I  was  constantly  outraging  somebody's  feel 
ings  in  some  manner,  and  falling  into  disgrace  from 
the  very  heights  of  self-approval.  When  I  thought 
I  was  right,  I  was  sure  to  be  wrong;  and  when  I 
tremblingly  confessed  myself  wrong,  I  was  perhaps 
commended  for  being  for  once  in  the  right. 

Awkward  and  shy,  I  hated  strangers,  and  suffered 
torments  from  being  obliged  to  meet  them  sometimes ; 
particularly  as  at  one  time  an  inconsiderate  and 


BERENICE.  55 

volatile  young  person,  who  was  visiting  at  my  aunt's, 
had  made  my  personal  defects  the  theme  of  ridicule. 
My  tawny  skin,  great  eyes,  and  protuberant  forehead, 
which  she  called  "horns,"  seemed  to  make  me  law 
ful  game  for  this  nymph  of 

"  Jest,  and  youthful  jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles." 

One  sunny  summer's  day,  on  returning  from 
school,  hot  and  tired  with  the  noonday  walk,  I 
thought  I  would  go  to  my  chamber  and  get  cool  and 
rested  before  going  about  my  usual  domestic  duties. 
I  had  just  reached  it,  and  laid  my  throbbing  head 
on  the  pillow,  when  Aunt  Clare  came  bustling  into 
the  room,  and  said,  hurriedly,  "Berenice,  you  are 
wanted  in  the  kitchen.  We  have  guests,  and  it  is  so 
warm  I  cannot  go  down.'' 

I  arose  with  alacrity,  for  I  dearly  loved  to  do 
her  bidding.  We  passed  through  the  entry.  Aunt 
Clare  remarked, 

"  Your  Cousin  Judith  is  here.  She  will  pass  some 
days  with  us." 


56  BERENICE. 

"Where  is  she?"  I  asked;  for  I  had  heard  her 
talked  of,  and  was  eager  to  see  her. 

"  She  is  in  the  next  chamber  just  now,"  replied 
my  aunt,  at  the  same  time,  gently  opening  the  door, 
she  stepped  into  the  room;  but  I  was  arrested  on  the 
threshold  by  the  vision  of  the  lovely  girl.  It  was  my 
Cousin  Judith.  Wearied  with  the  heat  and  fatigue  of  her 
journey,  she  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  low  couch,  on 
which  she  had  thrown  herself  to  rest.  The  room  was 
deliciously  cool  and  shady,  and  she  looked  so  lovely, 
lying  there  with  the  rosy  hue  of  health  on  her  cheeks; 
and,  to  complete  the  picture,  the  child,  Ella,  the  sweet 
pet  of  our  house,  had  crept  up  to  the  side  of  the 
couch;  and  she  too  was  sleeping;  and  I  knew  what 
darling  blue  eyes  the  veined  lids  were  hiding,  but 
I  could  not  guess  at  those  of  my  stranger  cousin. 

Aunt  Clare  said,  "Poor  little  things!  how  tired 
they  are ;  and  how  sweetly  they  are  sleeping  !  "  and 
she  bent  down  and  slightly  kissed  them  both. 

"  Come,  Berenice,  run  down  stairs,  and  help  to  get 
the  dinner  ready  !  *' 

The  contrast  was  too  strong :  the  tears  gathered  in 
my  eyes ;  so  I  turned  from  the  chamber. 


BERENICE.  57 

I,  too,  was  weary,  had  walked  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  school,  under  a  noon-day  sun,  and  had  not  been 
allowed  a  moment  even  to  wash  the  dust  from  my 
face  ;  but  nobody  had  said  of  me,  "  Poor  thing  !  how 
tired  she  is  !  " 

No  one  had  been  exactly  unkind  to  me ;  neither 
had  any  one  seemed  to  consider  my  human  weakness. 
I  was  glad  to  be  useful  to  my  aunt,  at  any  rate ; 
and,  if  she  had  only  kissed  me,  as  she  did  my  cousins, 
I  would  almost  have  gone  down  the  crater  of  Etna  to 
serve  her. 

I  did  not  envy  them  the  love  which  was  their  right ; 
but  I  did  long  to  be  loved  so  too, 

I  knew  Aunt  Clare  did  not  love  me ;  although  she 
did  everything  for  my  comfort  and  well-being ;  yet 
I  felt,  when  she  permitted  me  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
which  was  a  rare  favor,  I  felt  that  she  endured  rather 
than  returned  my  caresses. 

So,  the  thing  I  needed  most  I  lacked  and  pined 
for;  a  mother's  kiss,  the  tender  pressure  of  a  mother's 
hand,  that  I  could  have  no  more. 

I  met  my  cousin  at  dinner;  and,  from  the  first 
moment  that  I  looked  into  her  sad  but  serene  gray 


58  BERENICE. 

eyes,  I  loved  her  dearly.  There  was  a  fascination 
in  her  glance  quite  irresistible.  She  was  only  a  few 
years  older  than  myself;  but  we  became  at  once  firm 
friends. 

The  brilliancy  of  her  wit,  and  the  grace  of  her 
manners,  charmed  me  into  unquestioning  admiration. 

Aunt  Clare  said  that  Judith  had  bewitched  me, 
and  Dr.  Gaston  called  me  "a  little  wild  enthusiast;" 
but  I  shook  my  long  curls  at  him  (for  they  had 
grown  again),  and  replied,  saucily, 

"You  are  just  as  much  an  enthusiast  as  I  am." 

"How  so?"    said   the   doctor. 

"  You  cannot  bear  to  leave  the  house,  even  to  visit 
your  patients,  unless  you  can  take  her  along." 

"What  an  assertion!"  and  he  appealed  to  Judith, 
standing  near. 

"  Now  Brownie  is  vexed  because  she  cannot  go 
too." 

"Brownie  is  not,"  said  I;  "she  is  vexed  because 
she  can  never  have  her  cousin  to  herself,  for  Dr. 
Gaston." 

"Are   you   quite   sure   that   is   the   truth?" 

"Yes;   for    only  yesterday,    when   I  had    planned 


BERENICE.  59 

so  pleasant  a  ivalk  with  her,  you  came,  with  your 
great  black  horse,  curveting  and  prancing;  and  I  be 
lieve  he  is  an  enchanted  horse,  and  you  an  enchanter." 

"Ah,  Berenice  betrays  her  study!"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  She  has  been  reading  forbidden  books.  Her 
talk  smacks  of  Arabia." 

"That  is   not  all,"    I  rejoined. 

"Well,    let's  have  the  rest!" 

"  As  you  drove  off  with  her,  she  looked  like  a  queen 
of  fairy-land ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  mince  matters, 
but  to  tell  you  just  what  you  looked  like." 

"0,  don't,  Brownie!"  said  the  doctor,  holding  up 
both  hands  imploringly.  "  I  know  you  are  going  to 
say  something  terribly  severe.  My  vanity  will  have 
to  suffer." 

"Just  like  the  spirit  of  darkness,  flying  away  with 
an  angel  of  .light.  But  I  know  that  light  is  stronger 
than  darkness ;  so  I  was  sure  you  could  not  carry 
her  far,  for  all  you  nodded  so  satisfied  a  good-by  to 
me." 

"And  what  did   you  do,  then?"   said   the    doctor. 

"I!  0,  I  went  in,  and  studied  my  Latin;  the 
last  lesson  you  gave  me." 


60  BERENICE. 

"And  that  was  —  " 

"  The  day  before  my  cousin  came,"  I  answered  mis 
chievously. 

"And  I  have  not  heard  you  recite  it  yet.  It  is 
too  bad !  Come,  now,  and  let  me  see  how  perfect  you 
are." 

Judith  had  run  away;  but,  as  we  passed  in  to  the 
library,  we  found  her  there,  and  she  and  Dr.  Gaston 
were  soon  deep  in  converse  on  Plato's  philosophy,  and 
I  and  my  Latin  were  forgotten  again.  Then  I  crept 
away  into  the  doctor's  room,  and  felt  as  though  I  should 
cry,  but  did  not;  and,  at  length,  when  I  heard  them 
coming,  set  about  dusting  the  chairs  with  all  my 
might,  that  they  need  not  think  about  me  at  all. 

But  they  did ;  and  my  cousin  called  me  to  come 
and  sit  by  her.  She  put  her  arm  around  me,  and 
placed  my  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  doctor 
said,  "  Poor  little  Brownie  !  "  and  they  went  on  talk 
ing,  and  I  knew  by  the  conversation  that  they  had 
been  speaking  of  my  father,  and  I  whispered  to  Ju 
dith  that  I  could  not  stay. 

Then  I  ran  into  the  garden,  and  gathered  a  great 
bunch  of  white  roses  and  half-blown  buds  for  her,  and 


BERENICE.  61 

a  nosegay  of  pansies,  the  largest  I  could  find  in  my 
own  garden-bed,  for  the  doctor.  And  Judith  said 
"  Magnificent ! "  as  I  handed  her  the  roses ;  and 
he  said  "Sweet!"  to 'the  pansies. 

"You  queer  girl,  shall  I  give  you  a  kiss,  as  your 
cousin  has  done  ?  " 

Of  course  I  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant,  and 
went  singing  down  the  garden-walk,  that  they  might 
see  how  quietly  indifferent  I  felt.  But  there  was 
a  great  tumult  in  my  heart,  and  I  could  not  think 
what  ailed  me  ;  and  I  do  not  know  now  whether  I 
was  jealous  of  the  doctor  for  monopolizing  my  cousin, 
or  of  her  for  permitting  him  to  do  so. 

But  I  knew  that  he  was  charmed  with  her ;  as 
who  indeed  was  not?  I  saw  the  love-light  flashing 
up  into  his  eyes,  when,  in  their  earnest  converse, 
she  seemed  to  take  on  her  the  glowing  eloquence  of 
inspiration ;  and  my  girlish  fancy  was  jostled  from 
its  place  in  the  had  been,  and  gained  a  new  foot 
ing  on  the  heights  of  the  prophetic  to  be;  and  I 
built  "castles  in  the  air,"  but  they  all  toppled  down, 
and  I  wept  amid  their  ruins  at  last. 

Cousin  Judith,  among  other  accomplishments,  was 
6 


62  BERENICE. 

singularly  gifted  as  a  reader.  No  matter  what  the 
subject  might  be,  she  gave  it,  by  her  infinite  variety, 
the  charm  of  a  brilliant  colloquial  effort. 

In  the  reading  of  Shakspeare's  plays  she  particu 
larly  excelled ;  as  her  noble  voice  gave  utterance  to 
the  sentiment,  one  would  suppose,  who  heard  with 
out  seeing,  that  the  persons  of  the  drama  were  sepa 
rately  represented. 

Every  day  she  would  make  me  read  or  recite  to 
her  passages  from  the  great  author,  which  was  a 
source  of  the  purest  delight  to  me,  and  gratification 
to  her. 

And  I  said,  "  0,  when  I  can  read  as  well  as 
you,  I  will  read  to  everybody !  " 

She  replied,  "  One  day  you  will  read  a  great  deal 
better.  Then  you  will  remember  your  teacher." 

"  I  shall  never,  never  forget  you,  dear  Judith !  " 
I  replied. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

IT  was  in  the  delicious  month  of  June ;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  every  hour  of  all  the  days  of 
that  month  is  ineffaceably  engraven  on  the  tablets  of 
memory.  Everything  I  saw,  heard  or  felt,  after  cir 
cumstances  caused  to  be  repeated,  like  pictures  of  a 
separate  life. 

But  even  the  June  sunshine  has  its  shadows ;  and, 
during  that  month,  there  were  some  of  the  most 
terrible  thunder-storms  I  ever  remember  to  have 
witnessed. 

One  evening  I  shall  least  of  all  forget.  The 
thunder  boomed  through  the  heavens ;  the  arrowy 
lightnings  pierced  the  heavy  clouds  with  flash  after 
flash,  riving  them  asunder  as  they  lay  piled,  lurid 
and  murky  by  turns,  —  a  fitting  background  for  the 
awful  picture  which  the  eye  beheld. 

It  seemed   like  the  hour  of  doom.     We  all  sat  in 


64  BERENICE. 

silence,  gazing  out  on  the  terrible  sublimity  of  the 
scene;  fearing,  at  every  blinding  flash,  that  some 
bolt  might  reach  us. 

My  beautiful  cousin  seemed  strangely  affected  by 
the  electricity  in  the  air.  In  a  state  of  great  excite 
ment  she  whispered  to  me, 

"  Berenice,  dare  you  go  with  me  to  the  hill  yon 
der?  Do  not  tell  any  one,  but  come  quickly!" 

I  gave  her  my  hand,  and  we  hurried  out  into  the 
tempest. 

The  rain  had  not  yet  come  on,  but  the  wind  raved 
through  the  trees,  and  the  branches  tossed  madly, 
moaning  to  each  other.  The  winds  screamed  back 
to  them,  as  they  swept  on,  forever  on,  in  their 
might. 

I  accompanied  my  cousin,  without  a  word,  to  the 
hill  at  a  short  distance  from  the  house. 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  ringing  of  steel,  as  it  struck 
the  golden  charms  fastened  by  a  chatelaine  to  her 
girdle. 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  on  my  sight,  as  she  ele 
vated  in  her  left  hand  a  short  sword,  which  she  had 
taken  from  a  corner  in  the  library,  where  several 


BERENICE.  65 

articles  of  that  description  were  kept.  She  had  con 
cealed  it  in  the  folds  of  her  dress  until  this  moment. 

For   an   instant   I  was   overawed   by  her   temerity. 

"Why  do   you   do   so,  Judith?''  I   said,  softly. 

"  To  see  if  the  lightning  will  strike  it,"  she  re 
plied. 

"  But  it   might   kill   you,  cousin !  " 

"Might   it?"    was   her   brief  rejoinder. 

I  felt  afraid  to  speak  to  her  again,  —  almost  afraid 
to  look  at  her,  she  stood  so  pale  and  grand,  her 
forehead  gleaming  as  the  electric  flashes  played  around 
it  from  the  dark  depths  above.  A  cool  determina 
tion  was  in  her  eye,  appalling  in  one  so  young  and 
beautiful ;  her  lips  were  a  little  compressed  in  her 
earnestness ;  her  light  dress  floated  on  the  wind. 

Such  was  the  majesty  of  her  figure,  with  the  sword 
clutched  in  her  hand,  that  she  looked  like  some 
celestial  goddess  defying  the  spirit  of  the  storm,  and 
braving  death  as  well. 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  but,  snatching  the 
weapon,  quick  as  the  lightning  I  buried  it  to  the 
hilt  in  the  earth  at  our  feet. 

She  was  silent  and  passive.  I  put  my  arm  around 
6* 


66  BERENICE. 

her  waist,  and,  without  speaking,  we  hurried  to  the 
house. 

An  instant  more,  the  rain  was  pouring  in  floods 
from  the  surcharged  clouds,  and  my  cousin  sobbing 
hysterically  in  her  own  room. 

After  that  evening,  Judith  seemed  languid  and 
indifferent,  except  when  aroused  by  some  call  on  her 
intellect,  or  some  extraordinary  impulse  to  physical 
exertion.  She  was  more  sad  and  thoughtful  than 
before ;  and,  when  we  were  wandering  about  together 
in  the  woods,  she  would  get  out  of  the  path,  pur 
posely,  it  seemed,  to  lose  me ;  and  I  would  find  her 
again  apparently  sunk  in  painful  revery,  and  answer 
ing  so  strangely  to  my  questions,  till  I  could  not 
help  weeping,  I  felt  so  sad  for  her.  And  then  she 
would  see  my  eyes  brimming  over,  and  clasp  me  up 
in  her  arms,  and  comfort  me  with  loving  words. 
But  I  never  saw  a  tear  in  her  eyes,  yet  I  knew 
that  she  could  feel  intensely.  I  thought  how  strong 
she  must  be,  always  to  be  able  to  control  her  tears  ; 
and  I  secretly  resolved  to  be  like  her. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"  Barest  thou  die? 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension  ; 
And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies." 

ONE  evening,  as  we  were  all  sitting  about  the 
open  windows,  a  large  horned  beetle  came  whizzing 
into  the  room,  almost  touching  Judith's  cheek  as  it 
flew  past.  She  neither  moved  nor  turned  her  head, 
but  requested  that  the  insect  might  be  caught,  as 
she  wished  it  for  dissection. 

Dr.  Gaston,  rather  amused  at  her  desire,  secured 
the  humming  monster ;  and  the  next  morning  was 
fixed  on  for  the  anatomical  search  for  the  springs 
of  life  through  the  delicate  structure  of  the  victim. 
We  were  desirous  that  the  beetles  should  be  killed 


68  BERENICE. 

before  they  were  mutilated ;  for  I,  emulous  of  my 
cousin's  example,  had  also  provided  myself  with  an 
insect. 

Judith  seemed  to  awaken  from  the  apathy  into  which 
she  had  fallen  for  the  last  few  days,  and  now  entered 
into  a  lively  discussion  with  the  doctor,  relative  to  the 
pain  attending  different  modes  of  death. 

"  Because,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  to  put  this  beetle 
out  of  existence  by  the  easiest  possible  means,  not  to 
pain  the  creature  more  than  need  be." 

They  at  last  decided  on  drowning,  as  being  possibly 
the  most  convenient  method  at  the  moment.  There 
stood,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  a  long  tank  or  trough, 
hewn  from  an  oaken  log.  It  caught  the  drippings 
from  the  eaves,  and  was  generally  full  of  water.  In 
this  tank  we  proposed  to  drown  the  beetles.  Accord 
ingly,  we  shook  them  in  ;  but  the  obstinate  creatures 
wrould  not  sink.  We  held  them  under,  but  they  would 
not  remain  immersed.  So  we  left  them  there  till  morn 
ing,  and  retired  to  our  several  bed-rooms. 

On  the  morrow  I  repaired  to  the  tank,  full  of  glee, 
never  thinking  of  the  pain,  but  much  of  the  sport, 
of  our  experiment,  and  found  the  sharded  monsters 


BERENICE.  69 

on  their  backs.  They  had  yielded  at  discretion;  but 
had  not  yet  given  up  the  ghost  (that  is,  if  beetles 
have  ghosts ;  and  I  don't  know  how  we  are  to  de 
termine  whether  they  have  or  not)  ;  for,  after  Judith 
had  commenced  her  scrutiny,  by  amputating  a  leg,  a 
wing,  and  some  minor  portions  of  the  insect,  each  par 
ticular  member  started  from  its  state  of  torpor,  and 
we  discovered,  by  the  faint  quivering,  that  each  par 
ticle  was  yet  possessed  of  life.  Then  we  laid  them 
carefully  away  in  an  odd  corner,  supposing  they  would 
eventually  die. 

That  very  day  a  letter  came  summoning  Judith  to 
her  city  home.  All  were  sorry  to  lose  her  gracious 
companionship ;  but  the  command  from  her  mother  was 
imperative,  and  must  be  obeyed. 

"  We  will  have  one  more  long  walk  before  I  go, 
Berenice,"  said  she. 

We  were  alone  together  for  the  last  time;  and, 
in  my  own  free  way,  I  told  my  cousin  how  sorry  I 
felt  that  she  must  go. 

"  But,'7  said  I,  "  what  happiness  it  must  be  to  you 
to  go  to  your  mother,  your  sister,  and  your  brother! 
How  pleasant  it  must  be  to  have  a  sister;  and  more 


70  BERENICE. 

delightful  still  to  have  a  brother !  How  very  dear 
you  must  be  to  them ! ' ' 

"Berenice,"  said  my  cousin,  "do  you  not  know 
that  those  whom  we  call  mother,  sister,  brother,  are 
often  nothing  to  us  in  essence?  It  is  simply  a  ma 
terial  relation,  with  every  thought  and  feeling  widely 
at  variance ;  and  it  is  more  painful  to  acknowledge 
this  than  it  would  be  to  live  in  utter  loneliness. 

"To  be  obliged  to  hold  hourly  intercourse  with, 
and  be  under  constant  obligation  to,  uncongenial  per 
sons,  is  more  terrible  than  orphanage  or  destitution. 

"  But  you  have  never  known  this,  and  I  ought  not 
to  open  your  eyes  to  such  a  possibility." 

"  Then  you  are  not  glad  that  you  are  going  home?  " 
said  I. 

"  No ;  perhaps  it  is  ungrateful  in  me  to  say  so, 
for  my  mother  has  spared  no  expense  in  my  education. 
But  she  lavishes  not  her  love,  along  with  her  care,  for 
my  mental  cultivation.  I  would  rather  be  her  waiting- 
maid,  and  be  beloved,  than  accept  the  care  that  gold 
can  buy,  and  be  a  pauper  in  affection.  Home  would 
be  pleasanter  if  I  never  thought  anything  beyond  the 
milk-and-water  sentiment  which  occupies  most  of  the 


BERENICE.  71 

individuals  with  whom  I  come  in  contact  when  I  am 
at  home." 

c:I  see  how  that  may  be,"  I  replied.  "  One  cannot 
help  the  thoughts,  sometimes,  which  the  little  voice 
whispers  as  no  wrong.  I  will  tell  you  what  is  the 
trouble  with  you  and  me.  Neither  of  us  are  religious  ; 
for  you  know  we  both  ask  questions  about  God  and 
the  Bible,  which  persons  who  are  called  Christians  would 
not  do;  they  say  it  is  doubting  the  Infinite;  and 
old  Abby  Kinsman  told  me  it  was  just  as  much  sin 
for  me  to  question,  as  I  did,  as  it  was  for  Eve  to  eat 
of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil, 
which  she  says  means,  spiritually,  self-wisdom,  or  the 
desire  to  know  that  which  none  but  our  Father  in  heaven 
can  know.  And,  perhaps,  after  all,  dear  cousin,  the 
things  which  you  desire  might  not  be  good  for  you ; 
for  I  heard  you  telling  Dr.  Gaston  how  you  longed  to 
understand  the  mysteries  of  the  future,  and  to  experi 
ence  what  almost  every  one  shrinks  from  with  dread, 
'  the  change  from  life  to  death.'  " 

"  No,  not  from  life  to  death,  but  from  death  to  life ! 
for  I  am  dead  here,  useless  and  dead.  I  am  unhappy. 
There  is  no  one  in  the  whole  world  I  love  well 


72  BERENICE. 

enough  to  make  me  wish  to  stay  5 "  and  she  went 
on,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  presence,  though  every 
word  was  like  fire  in  my  ears. 

"  This  desire  grows  stronger  and  stronger ;  the 
spirit  wrestles  with  the  flesh  in  its  vague  yearnings 
to  attain  to  the  presence  of  the  Great  Unknown. 

"But  if,  after  all,  it  should  not  be, — if,  when  the 
veil  be  lifted,  there  should  be  only  darkness  beyond, 
—  there  is  no  return.  The  shivering  soul,  hounded 
on  by  the  recreant  will,  for  its  penance  may  wander 
through  a  wilderness  of  worlds,  and  find  no  home,  no 
God  !  » 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  the  silence  was  uninter 
rupted,  for  I  could  not  fully  understand  her  mean 
ing,  and  felt  grieved  that  she  seemed  so  hopeless, 
and  was  so  soon  to  leave  us. 

Our  walk  —  our  last  walk  —  was  taken,  and  we 
were  at  home. 

My  cousin  was  as  cheerful  as  though  she  had 
never  known  a  sad  thought  in  her  life. 

The  hour  came  for  her  departure.  She  chatted 
gayly  with  Dr.  Gaston,  while  little  Ella  besieged  her 
for  a  last  game  of  romps,  and  the  doctor  was  promis- 


BERENICE.  73 

ing  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  the  next  week 
in  her  city  home.  But  he  looked  very  lonesome  as 
he  drove  off  to  make  his  daily  visits. 

In  a  little  while  she  too  was  gone.  Aunt  and 
Uncle  Clare  accompanied  her  a  few  miles  on  her 
route,  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  where  she  would 
pass  the  night,  and,  in  the  morning,  go  on  in  the 
stage  to  B . 

I  watched  the  carriage  out  of  sight,  and  listened 
till  the  last  clatter  of  the  wheels  was  drowned  in 
the  distance ;  and  then  I  sat  down  alone  in  the 
woodbine  to  think.  I  built  a  fairy- world;  and,  when 
it  was  nearly  finished,  I  fancied  something  wrong  in 
the  foundation,  and  tore  it  down  again.  Then  I 
was  attracted  by  the  lazy  hum  of  a  droning  bee ; 
and  I  said,  "  My  fine  fellow,  when  you  go  back  to 
the  hive  without  the  honey  on  your  thighs,  the  busy 
workers  will  drive  you  out  with  stinging  reproach. 
Better  be  gathering  sweets  from  the  clover-tops  yon 
der."  Then  came  a  sharper  sound,  —  a  buzz,  with  a 
long,  low  wail  at  its  close.  A  huge  spider  had 
meshed  in  his  artful  web  a  simple,  harmless  fly,  and 
I  thought  I  would  tear  down  the  web,  kill  the  spi- 
7 


74  BERENICE. 

der,  and  set  the  captive  free.  But  stop;  the  spider 
wants  the  fly  for  his  supper !  and  what  good  would 
it  do  to  save  this  one  ?  for  there  are  plenty  more 
ready  to  do  the  same  thing.  The  fly's  life  would 
be  saved,  the  spider's  taken.  Well,  after  all,  what 
right  have  I  to  pull  his  house  down,  and  take  his 
life,  when  he  is  only  getting  his  supper  in  a  legiti 
mate  way?  The  fly  does  the  same;  and  so  does 
man  trap,  torture,  and  kill,  to  supply  his  daily  wants. 
I  shall  not  interfere  because  I  am  able  to  do  it. 
God  does  not  interfere  with  man ;  and  man  should 
not  interfere  with  inferior  forms  of  life. 

So  I  left  the  fly  to  his  fate,  and  took  pride  in 
my  hardheartedness.  But  I  thought  and  decided  in 
my  own  mind  that  I  would  never  again  eat  of  any 
thing  which  must  suffer  the  pangs  of  death  to  gratify 
my  palate. 

A  little  after  sunset  my  aunt  and  uncle  returned. 
They  talked  of  Judith.  Aunt  said, 

"  She  seemed  really  homesick.  I  had  a  great 
mind  to  bring  her  back  again;  but  she  called  her 
self  foolish  and  weak,  and  tried  to  be  cheerful." 

Then  my  aunt  told  me  how  she  had  stood  beside 


BERENICE.  75 

her,  and,  pushing  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead, 
gazed  long  and  wistfully  on  her  face,  saying, 

"  I  wish  to  remember  exactly  how  you  look  ;  for 
sometimes  I  forget  • "  and  then  kissed  her  over  and 
over  again,  with  great  tenderness. 

My  uncle  said,  in  his  plain  matter-of-fact  way, 
that  he  thought  the  girl  must  be  half  crazy. 

"  No,"  replied  my  aunt,  "it  is  her  way.  She  is 
always  very  sorrowful  at  parting  from  me.  She  has 

been   with   me   so   much   during    her   childhood,    that 

•  «  . 
she   says   I  seem  nearer  to  her  than  almost  any  one. 

"  She  has  a  very  peculiar  temperament,  and  they 
never  seem  to  understand  her  at  home. 

"  I  look  forward  to  her  marriage  with  some  suit 
able  person,  as  the  happiest  thing  for  her,  although 
she  says  her  mind  is  fixed  on  this  point,  —  that  she 
will  never  marry." 

"  I  think,"  said  my  uncle,  "  that  she  has  studied 
too  intensely,  and  has  read  too  much  desultory  matter, 
for  a  perfectly  healthful  mental  action.  She  is 
beautiful,  amiable,  and  accomplished.  But  I  am  sorry 
to  see  the  turn  her  mind  is  taking,  and  her  mother 
blind  to  her  great  danger." 


76  BERENICE.. 

"  Great  danger  !  "  said  my  aunt,  startled  by  the 
earnestness  of  his  manner. 

"Danger  of  her  falling  into  a  morbid  melancholy, 
which  will  embitter  her  life,  and  overshadow  the  fair 
promise  of  her  truly  superior  intellect." 

Here  the  conversation  dropped.  But  I  thought  a 
great  while  of  what  my  uncle  had  said,  before  I 
slept  that  night.  At  daybreak,  next  morning,  the 
household  were  disturbed  by  the  arrival  of  a  man 
on  horseback,  not  to  call  the  doctor,  —  which  was  a 
common  occurrence,  —  but  with  a  message  for  Uncle 
Clare,  which  was  extremely  unusual. 

I  heard  the  man  speaking  under 'his  window,  but 
could  not  catch  the  words.  He  rode  off  again,  and 
the  house  seemed  quiet  until  the  accustomed  hour 
of  rising. 

When  I  met  Aunt  Clare,  I  saw  that  she  had 
been  weeping. 

"What   has   happened,  aunt?" 

"  Our  darling  Judith  is  dead ;  —  found  drowned, 
last  night,  in  the  lake  near  Mrs.  Coleman's  house." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  every  hair  of  my  head 
stood  up  in  horror. 


BERENICE.  77 

Drowned  ! 

My  first  thought  was  of  the  poor  beetles  we  had 
tried  to  drown;  and  I  almost  believed  it  a  retri 
bution  for  that  act.  I  ran  to  the  drawer  where 
we  had  placed  them.  My  horror  was  increased  to 
find  them  still  alive.  The  imagined  cruelty  seemed 
tenfold  now  that  I  must  bear  it  alone.  I  fled  to 
the  garden,  and,  with  shaking  hands,  trowelled  a  hol 
low  space,  and,  with  shuddering  haste,  I  laid  the 
cold,  crawling  remnants  of  insect  life  in  earth,  heap 
ing  the  ground  above  them  with  care.  There  seemed, 
to  my  excited  imagination,  a  mystical  relation  between 
them  and  my  dear  dead  Judith;  for  I  knew  not 
then  that  she  had  herself  withdrawn  the  curtain 
folded  around  the  invisible  future.  Subsequently  I 
learned  the  fact  from  the  village  crone,  and  almost 
fainted  as  I  listened  to  the  heartless  speculations  as 
to  the  cause  of  her  wild,  rebellious  act.  Of  course 
a  shadowy  suspicion  fell 'upon  her,  —  the  blighting 
insinuation  which  the  censorious  whisper  to  mock  our 
charity,  —  and,  in  its  poisoning  breath,  the  name  of 
virtue,  withering,  dies. 

She  sleeps  in  the  quiet  burying-ground  at  Lea- 
7* 


78  BEKENICE. 

lands,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  purple  waters 
of  the  smooth  lake,  surrounded  by  picturesque  foli 
age,  gleaming  like  an  amethyst  bedded  in  emerald, 
calm  and  unruffled,  as  though  no  human  heart  had 
ever  breathed  its  last  sigh  there,  burying  an  untold 
secret,  an  unwhispered  wrong,  known  only  to  her 
God;  and  "His  thoughts  are  not  as  our  thoughts, 
nor  his  ways  as  our  ways." 

Dr.  Gaston  never  forgot  our  poor  cousin.  He  was 
cheerful  as  usual.  But,  in  his  hours  of  seclusion, 
he  pored  more  intently  over  the  chimerical  studies 
which  she  had  for  a  time  weaned  him  from.  He 
seemed  to  forget  everything  in  his  dreams  of  the 
Elixir  Vifcc,  and  the  Auruni  Potable.  His  dream 
of  love  was  ended,  and  he  became  once  more  the 
patient,  ardent  devotee  of  science. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

AND  this  was  my  girlhood.  Something  too  much 
of  sorrow  had  flecked  the  sunshine,  tinging  my  merri 
est  thoughts  with  sadness,  and  my  small  dark  face 
bore  the  stamp  of  maturity  far  beyond  my  years. 
But  the  brown  tints  were  disappearing  from  the  sur 
face  ;  and  I  was  getting  tall,  too ;  and  Dr.  Gaston 
said  I  was  growing  so  fast,  and  becoming  so  pale, 
there  was  no  longer  any  point  in  calling  me  "  little 
Brownie,"  and  he  must  find  some  other  pet  name  for  me. 

Some  change  in  my  uncle's  business  affairs  deter 
mined  him  to  resign  the  care  of  his  farm  to  other 
hands,  and  himself  to  remove  to  a  manufacturing  city, 
some  thirty  miles  distant  from  Lealands.  Accord 
ingly,  preparations  were  set  on  foot  for  this  change 
from  country  to  town  life. 

I  had  never  lived  in  a  large  town;  and  yet  I 
had  some  very  pleasant  notions  concerning  it. 


80  BERENICE. 

The  bustle  of  removal  was  over,  and  we  were  com 
fortably  located  in  our  new  home,  —  more  elegant, 
but  not  more  spacious  than  the  old. 

Now  came  new  relations,  new  duties,  and  new 
recognitions  of  old  habits  of  thought  and  feeling. 

I  had  lost  my  friend,  Dr.  Gaston.  He  remained 
in  his  own  place,  and  I  sometimes  felt  lost  without 
him. 

But  something  I  had  never  thought  of  before 
occurred  to  me  at  this  point.  This  was,  that  I  might 
be  a  burden  to  my  uncle,  an  increase  of  care  to  my 
aunt,  and  a  useless  member  of  a  household  where 
I  had  no  real  claim. 

This  idea  grew,  in  the  silence  of  my  breast,  until 
every  thought  was  swallowed  in  the  one  determina 
tion  that  I  must  make  some  special  exertion  for  my 
6wn  support. 

"What   ails   the   girl?"  said   my  uncle. 

]•  sat  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  could  not  avoid 
overhearing  the  conversation  that  followed. 

"I  never  come  into  the  house,  but  I  find  -her 
crouched  up  in  some  corner,  with  her  elbows  on  her 
keees,  and  her  face  thrust  into  her  hands, —  a  per- 


BERENICE.  81 

feet  picture  of  misery.  What  has  gone  wrong  with 
her?" 

"I  cannot  see  what  ails  her,"  said  my  aunt;  "and 
I  am  really  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do  with  her. 
Her  nervous  system  seems  to  he  out  .of  order.  She 
is  a  great  plague.  I  think  she  is  getting  morbid 
over  her  father's  condition,  for  one  thing.  But,  aside 
from  that,  she  is  really  the  strangest  child  I  ever 
came  across.  She  does  not  seem  sick,  but  moody, 
and  freaky,  and  almost  sulky.  I  think  it  the  most 
difficult  thing  in  the  world  to  manage  a  young  per 
son  of  her  temperament.'7 

So  that  was  the  valuation  to  which  my  honest, 
inward  struggle  had  brought  me ! 

"0,"   I   thought,  "if  they   only  knew!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  my  uncle,  "it  would  be  well  to 
send  her  away  for  a  while ;  at  least  during  the 
summer  months." 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  that,"  replied  my 
aunt. 

Accordingly,  I  was  not  surprised  when  Aunt  Clare 
proposed  to  me  that  I  should  go  and  pass  a  few 
months  with  a  relative  of  ours,  residing  in  a  quiet 


82  BERENICE. 

country  village,  about  twenty  miles  distant  from  the 
city.  I  was  passive,  for  I  cared  very  little  where 
I  went,  if  I  could  not  go  back  to  Lealands,  which  I 
found  was  considered  inexpedient. 

A  kind  letter  was  written  to  Mrs.  Leighton.  I 
was  to  make  myself  generally  useful ;  —  that  pleased 
me,  for  I  thought,  "  Now  I  am  sure  I  can  do  work 
enough  at  least  to  pay  for  my  daily  bread."  I  knew 
that  a  willing  hand  would  find  acceptance  in  a  farm 
house  where  there  was  much  labor  to  perform.  Mrs. 
Leighton  seemed  to  think,  when  she  first  saw  me, 
that  my  labor  would  not  be  worth  mentioning;  but 
I  soon  convinced  her  to  the  contrary. 

The  household  affairs  were  conducted  on  a  plan 
of  the  most  scrupulous  economy.  The  farm-house 
was  small;  two  rooms  and  a  •"  buttery  "  on  the  first 
floor,  and  comforta  ^le  sleeping-rooms  above  them.  The 
floors  of  these  lower  rooms  were  uncarpeted ;  the 
kitchen  and  buttery  unpainted ;  and  these  floors  were 
kept  white  as  snow  by  repeated  scrubbings  with  soap 
and  sand, —  rather  a  severe  process,  but  a  labor  at 
which  I  excelled  after  I  found  how  much  it  gratified 
Mrs.  Leighton. 


BERENICE.  83 

I  went  often  with  the  haymakers  into  the  fields 
to  spread  swathes,  open  winrows,  rake,  and  such  light 
work  as  might  be  expected  at  my  hands.  The  hours 
of  sunrise  and  of  sunset  found  me  milking  the  cows, 
and  bearing  to  the  dairy-room  the  pails  foaming 
with  milk. 

I  became  a  binder  of  sheaves,  a  feeder  of  poultry, 
milk-maid,  dairy-maid  —  in  short,  maid-of-all-work  on 
the  farm. 

I  was  what  the  country-folks  termed  a  "smart 
girl;"  and  the  "heaps  of  .work"  turned  off  my 
hands  would  be  a  marvel  to  the  gay  belles  of  fashion, 
who  get  "fatigued  to  death"  doing  nothing. 

In  all  this  earnest  toil  I  learned  useful  lessons 
for  the  future.  Besides,  my  health  of  mind  was  per 
fectly  reestablished.  I  sang  and  danced  with  the 
merry  village  lads  and  lasses,  as  glad  and  happy  as 
they. 

Mrs.  Leighton  was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  well 
disposed  towards  me ;  but  she  was  not  nice  in  her 
own  feelings,  and  could  have  no  innate  perception 
of  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  no  regard  for  any  peculiar 
ity  of  organization. 


84  BERENICE. 

Unfortunately  at  last  we  fell  out.  I  did  not,  to  the 
letter,  obey  an  injunction  of  hers ;  and  she,  being 
in  an  irritable  mood,  her  anger  aroused,  reprimanded 
me  with  undue  severity.  My  pride  kindled,  as  the 
sharp  words  struck  my  sensitive  feelings  with  a 
hasty  shock.  I  answered  back,  "I  am  not  your 
slave  !  " 

The  reply  came  testily :  "  You  are  altogether  too 
free  of  speech  for  one  so  dependent  as  yourself  on 
the  charity  of  friends  for  every  mouthful  of  food  you 
put  into  your  lips." 

There  was  an  energy  in  her  words  almost  petri 
fying.  I  replied,  "  If  you  consider  me  a  dependent 
on  your  charity,  I  had  better  go." 

"  The  sooner  you  go  the  better,"  was  the  curt  and 
heedless  retort. 

"Then  it  shall  be  so !     I  will  go!"   said  I. 

But  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  when  it  came 
at  last.  I  had  eaten  of  her  bread  and  drunken  of 
her  cup ;  but  I  felt  that  I  had  in  some  sort  ren 
dered  an  equivalent  by  the  labor  which  I  had  faith 
fully  performed.  She  had  been  kind  to  me  till  now 
that  she  had  flung  my  helpless,  friendless  state  in  my 


BERENICE.  85 

teeth,  as  though  I  were  to  blame  for  the  circum 
stances  of  my  life. 

And  we  must  part  in  anger.  I  looked  back,  as 
I  left  the  chamber,  hoping  for  a  word  or  glance  of 
encouragement,  that  I  might  ask  forgiveness  for  my 
hasty  words ;  but  in  vain. 

She  had  said  "  the  sooner  you  go  the  better"  I 
was  cut  to  the  quick.  I  decided  on  immediate  de 
parture.  I  scarcely  knew  by  what  means ;  but  my 
impulsive  spirit  was  apt  in  suggestion.  I  went  about 
my  usual  duties  for  the  evening  with  a  swelling 
heart,  and  then  made  the  scanty  preparations  for 
my  journey.  One  gentle  word  could  have  turned 
me  from  my  purpose.  But  no  such  word  was  spoken, 
though  I  lingered,  hoping,  even  to  the  last,  that  it 
might  be. 

I  was  not  old  enough  to  comprehend  all  the 
danger  incurred  by  the  step  I  was  about  to  take ;  for 
I  had  determined  to  go  on  foot,  since  I  possessed 
no  other  means.  I  never  was  provident  of  money, 
and  had  not  sixpence  then  at  my  command. 

I  said,  I  will  go  back  to  the  town,  but  not  to 
my  aunt ;  alas !  not  to  her  !  Am  I  not  fourteen 
8 


86  BERENICE. 

years  old,  strong  and  able  as  many  who  work  in  the 
manufactories?  And,  I  argued  to  myself,  it  is  but 
right  to  show  them  that  I  need  not  be  a  miserable 
dependent,  eating  the  bread  of  charity ;  and  I  proudly 
felt  the  power  within  myself  of  pioneering  my  own 
way  through'  all  future  difficulties. 

I  decided  to  go  at  once  —  that  very  night.  I 
should  be  less  liable  to  observation  and  pursuit.  And 
it  seemed,  when  I  caught  Mrs.  Leighton's  unforgiving, 
forbidding  expression,  that  I  would  rather  starve  than 
remain  another  hour  under  her  roof. 

It  was  scarcely  twilight-dawn  when  I  was  ready 
for  my  journey.  But  I  bethought  me  that  I  would 
leave  a  message,  which  I  knew  Mrs.  Leighton  would 
understand.  So,  writing  on  a  slip  of  paper,  I  pinned 
it  to  the  frame  of  the  little  looking-glass  :  "  You  may 
do  what  you  see  fit  with  my  clothing,  for  I  shall  never 
need  it." 

Except  the  garments  I  had  on,  I  took  nothing  with 
me  but  a  small  box  of  precious  papers,  letters,  and 
various  memorials. 

I  had  selected  from  my  slender  wardrobe  the 
meanest  garments,  and  certainly  looked  more  like  a 


BERENICE.  87 

beggar  than  it  would  ever  before  have  seemed  pos 
sible  I  could  have  done. 

It  was  a  cool  starlight  night.  I  did  not  well  know 
my  way ;  but  there  were  the  spectral  guide-posts  at 
the  corners  where  the  roads  crossed  each  other.  I 
was  obliged  to  fix  my  eyes  on  the  black-lettered  face 
several  moments  ere  I  could  discover  the  different 
points ;  and  I  went  on3  and  on,  through  the  dim 
night,  unheeding  the  body's  weariness,  regardless  of 
the  terrors  of  the  highway,  though  my  heart  did  beat 
a  little  quicker  as  I  found  myself  suddenly  in  the 
midst  of  a  flock  of  sheep.  The  soft,  meek  creatures 
were  as  much  alarmed  as  I.  We  were  mutually 
glad  to  part  company.  The  dogs  barked  furiously 
at  me  as  I  passed.  I  thought  they  would  arouse  the 
inmates  of  the  houses,  and  they,  perhaps,  would  hunt 
me  down ;  and  away  with  winged  feet  like  a  fright 
ened  doe  I  fled.  I  was  actually  guilty  of  running 
toll.  The  "man  at  the  turnpike  bar"  never,  awoke 
to  open  for  me.  so  I  went  under  it. 

Now  for  several  miles  my  road  lay  through  a 
dense  wood  of  tall,  dark  pines,  meeting  at  their  tops, 
thus  excluding  every  ray  of  light,  and  forming  an 


88  BERENICE. 

archway  worthy  to  be  the  avenue  to  Hadean  Shades. 
Some  such  thought  oppressed  me.  The  mysterious 
sounds  from  the  woods  echoed  in  my  ears  like  the 
fabulous  word  in  the  story.  Every  stick  and  stone 
sent  forth  a  voice  of  bitterness  against  me.  I  had  a 
vague  expectation  that  the  gnomes  of  the  rocks  would 
lay  violent  hands  on  me,  and  drag  me  away  to  their 
dark,  lonesome  caves.  There  was  no  walking  then.  I 
actually  bounded  over  the  ground  several  feet  at 
once.  The  drops  of  fear  rolled  down  my  face ;  the 
breath  came  suffocatingly;  and,  just  as  I  reached  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  I  stumbled  across  a  gnarled 
root  in  the  path,  and  remember  no  more  until  I  was 
aroused  by  the  noise  of  a  carriage  passing  close 
by  me. 

It  seems  that  there  might  have  passed  either  an 
age  or  an  instant  since  my  last  thought.  It  was 
almost  a  miracle  that  the  wheels  had  not  gone  across 
my  body. 

Startled  into  life  by  this  new  danger  just  escaped, 
I  once  more  drew  myself  together  for  a  renewal  of 
my  journey.  At  first,  I  went  but  slowly ;  I  was  ex 
hausted,  mentally  and  physically.  The  road  now  lay 


BERENICE.  89 

through  a  swamp.  The  heavy  vapors  settled  oppres 
sively  around '  me,  while  the  croak  of  a  solitary  bull 
frog  came  up  hoarsely  through  the  fog;  the  "will- 
of- the- wisp"  flashed,  flickered  and  danced  on  every 
side,  and  all  around  me,  until  bewilderment  took  the 
place  of  my  former  fear,  and  I  fancied  the  huge  white 
shadows  flying  to  meet  me  were  real  forms  of  em 
bodied  light,  that  were  coming  to  support  my  wa 
vering  feebleness.  I  lifted  myself  to  meet  them  as 
they  flew  by ;  but  they  were  only  as  shadows,  and 
flitted  away,  leaving  me,  with  outstretched  arms,  still 
to  grope  my  way  amidst  the  gloom.  0,  how  I 
mutely  wished  for  some  real,  tangible  form  of  life  to 
take  my  trembling  hands  and  lead  me  onward ! 

A  bell,  from  some  far-off  steeple,  struck  eleven.  It 
roused  me.  I  knew  that  a  good  part  of  my  journey 
was  yet  to  be  accomplished ;  yet  I  felt  completely  ex 
hausted.  So  I  dragged  myself  painfully  along,  for 
the  next  hour,  and  suddenly  found  myself  near  an 
isolated  human  habitation.  I  felt  faint,  and  thought 
myself  dying. 

At  this  moment,  the  bell  pealed  out,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  the  twelfth  hour.  There  was  a  super- 
8* 


90  BERENICE. 

natural  hush,  pervading  all  nature,  above  and  around 
me.  My  very  heart  stood  still.  The  child-nature  tri 
umphed.  I  was  afraid,  in  the  deep  midnight.  I  felt 
that  I  must  behold  a  human  face,  or  die.  Step  by  step 
I  crept  to  the  door  of  the  solitary  house;  and  then 
the  question  stole  into  my  mind,  "What  right  have 
I  to  waken  them  from  their  sleep?  Will  they  not 
spurn  me  from  the  door  as  a  thing  that  is  trouble 
some,  and  unworthy  of  their  care?  Well,  after  all, 
I  can  but  die!" 

I  knocked  falteringly.  No  answer.  Again :  not  a 
sound. 

Once  more,  with  the  energy  of  despair,  I  struck 
my  knuckles  on  the  panel  of  the  door. 

There  was  a  step,  and  a  voice  within  asked, 

"Who   are  you,  and  what  do  you  want?" 

"Who  am  I,  and  what  do  I  want?"  I  was  as 
much  at  a  loss  for  an  answer  to  myself  as  to  the 
questioner  within. 

"What  do  you  want?"  repeated  the  voice. 

"I  am  dying  for  rest,  —  famishing  for  a  draught  of 
water  !  "  I  cried. 

My  own  voice  frightened  me.     It  was  changed.     The 


BERENICE.  91 

light-hearted,  girlish  tone  was  gone;  and  the  pathos 
of  the  mature  woman  had  taken  its  place. 

The  door  was  unbarred,  —  slowly  opened ;  and  an  old 
man,  —  his  head  white  with  age,  which  was  in  itself 
enough  to  inspire  me  with  reverence  and  trust, — 
stooped  to  raise  me ;  for,  in  my  weakness,  I  had 
fallen  across  the  threshold. 

He  lifted  me  tenderly,  and  bore  me  in.  Bidding 
his  old  wife  bring  a  light,  and  holding  it  close  to  my 
face,  he  exclaimed, 

"  Poor  child !  how  came  you  to  be  a  wanderer  in 
the  night?" 

The  flood-gates  of  feeling  were  loosed ;  and  I  wept, 
moaned  and  sobbed,  with  perfect  abandonment. 

The  old  people  looked  on  with  astonishment,  but 
set  about  ministering  to  my  comfort.  Presently  my 
passionate  grief  was  exhausted,  and  I  grew  composed. 
When  I  could  speak,  I  poured  out  the  whole  story  of 
my  wrongs  and  sufferings,  both  real  and  imaginary. 

The  good  people  listened,  pitied  and  soothed  me  ;  and 
then  they  saw  me  comfortably  in  bed.  The  wife,  as 
she  bade  me  "  Good-night,"  laid  her  hand  in  silent 
blessing  on  my  head  with  all  a  mother's  tenderness. 


92  BERENICE. 

I  awoke,  somewhat  refreshed,  on  the  morrow,  and 
ascertained,  from  the  good  old  man,  that  I  was  seven 
miles  from  my  place  of  destination.  I  had  gone  over 
twelve  miles  of  my  journey  the  preceding  night. 

Without  regard  to  the  earnest  appeal  that  I  would 
stop  with  them  until  rested,  I  bade  "Good-by"  to 
my  generous  entertainers,  and  walked  on. 

It  was  high  noon  as  I 'entered  the  busy  manufac 
turing  town.  With  faltering  feet  and  tearful  eyes  I 
passed  the  homes  of  some  I  loved,  —  of  kind  and  gentle 
friends,  who  would  gladly  have  taken  me  to  their 
hearts,  and  shielded  me  from  every  trial.  With  tears 
in  my  eyes,  but  a  determined  spirit  in  my  breast,  I 
pressed  steadily  on,  hastening  to  put  my  plan  in  exe 
cution. 

I  knew  that  in  the  great  factories,  —  the  many- 
windowed  workshops  of  the  million,  —  young  girls,  not 
larger  than  myself,  were  employed  at  wages.  I  knew 
that  my  high-blooded  relatives  would  reject  the  idea, 
and  consider  me  possessed  of  a  spirit  of  servile  mean 
ness  to  have  harbored  such  a  purpose.  But  I  had 
no  pride  of  blood  or  birth  to  deter  me;  for,  even 
as  a  child,  I  was  thoroughly  democratic;  and  rather 


BERENICE.  98 

chose  for  my  associates  those  upon  whom  my  prouder 
companions   looked   down   with   scorn. 

I  felt  that  it  would  be  my  greatest  pride  to  be  able 
to  relieve  my  mind  from  the  depressing  sense  of  de 
pendence  on  my  kindred,  from  which  I  had  suffered 
so  much. 

Although  an  entire  stranger  to  the  proceedings 
necessary  in  order  to  obtain  work,  yet  I  felt  certain 
of  finding  out  the  way  by  dint  of  perseverance. 

It  was  now  the   half   hour  past  noon,    and  thour 
sands  were  thronging  from  the  mill-yards,  at  the  ring-     . 
ing  of  the  dinner-bells. 

I  timidly  joined  a  group  hurrying  by,  and  passed  in 
with  them  to  one  of  the  tidily-kept  brick  boarding- 


The  mistress  of  the  house  soon  discovered  me,  as  I 
stood  trembling  in  the  hall.  She  very  gently  asked 
my  business.  I  confessed,  through  tears  and  sobs 
(for  I  could  never  master  my  weakness  that  way), 
that  I  had  run  away  from  the  persons  with  whom 
my  friends  had  placed  me ;  that  I  did  not  wish  to 
return  to  them;  and  begged  her  to  assist  me  in 
getting  employment  in  the  factories. 


94  BEEENICE. 

She  seemed  touched  by  the  brief  recital,  and  grati 
fied  by  the  confidence  reposed  in  her.  She  kindly 
offered  me  a  home  for  the  present,  saying  that  after 
dinner  she  would  see  what  could  be  done  for  me. 

I  had  no  appetite  for  the  meal.  Although  I  sat  down 
with  others  at  the  table,  I  could  only  swallow  my 
tears,  instead  of  the  food. 

In  less  than  two  hours  after,  I  was  established 
as  an  inmate  of  the  family.  My  place  was  engaged 
in  a  factory,  in  the  weaving-room,  where  the  clicking 
shuttle  flies,  the  bands  and  cylinders  whir  and  whir, 
and  the  noise  of  machinery  booms  in  a  deafening, 
stunning  roar  through  all  the  long  days. 

I  was  to  receive  a  sufficient  remuneration  to  de 
fray  all  necessary  expenses,  and,  after  a  little  while, 
would  get  something  to  lay  by  each  week.  I  felt 
my  spirits  expand  with  the  prospect  of  success  in 
my  first  attempt. 

"You  must  send  for  your  trunk,"  said  my  kind 
protectress.  "You  will  want  your  clothes  imme 
diately." 

I  then  told  her  the  foolish  disposition  I  had  made 
of  them,  and  said. 


BERENICE.  95 

"I  do  not  wish  them  to  know  where  I  am." 

"That  will  make  no  difference,  of  course,"  said  she. 
"They  will  be  sure  to  find  you  out  some  time;  and 
when  they  find  you  employed,  and  in  good  hands, 
they  will  leave  you  alone." 

"But,"  I  replied,  "it  will  hurt  their  pride  to 
have  me  here." 

"It  should  have  been  their  pride  to  dispose  of 
a  girl  like  you  so  that  you  would  not  have  been 
left  to  do  anything  that  could  hurt  it,"  she  an 
swered. 

I  was  in  an  intense  state  of  excitability,  from  ex 
cess  of  action  for  the  last  few  hours,  and  yet  I  could 
not  rest.  There  was  a  dear  friend  of  Aunt  Clare's, 
who  was  likewise  fond  of  me,  residing  some  mile  out 
of  town,  whom  I  longed  to  see.  I  told  my  boarding 
mistress  I  must  go  to  her,  but  would  return  before 
evening.  She  tried  hard  to  dissuade  me,  but,  with 
my  usual  impetuosity,  I  overcame  all  obstacles;  and, 
footsore  and  fatigued,  but  nothing  daunted,  I  trudged 
off  to  the  house  of  my  friend. 

If  I  had  not  previously  marked  out  the  course  *  to 
be  pursued  in  the  emergency  of  the  case,  I  could  not 


96  BERENICE. 

have  gone  to  her;  for  the  slightest  appearance  of 
seeking  assistance  from  a  friend,  under  the  circum 
stances,  would  have  been  revolting  to  my  nature, 
besides  compromising  my  newly-acquired  independ 
ence.  But,  as  it  was,  I  yearned  for  kindred  sympathy. 
I  longed  to  show  my  purpose,  and  its  near  accomplish 
ment,  to  one  who  could  appreciate  the  motive,  and, 
perhaps,  commend  the  act. 

My  generous  protectress  had  done  all  she  could  for 
me,  and  I  felt  unbounded  gratitude  towards  her.  But 
that  was  an  exterior  matter.  I  could  not  take  her 
into  my  soul,  and  show  its  needs  to  her.  Her  bread 
and  bounty  could  not  feed  the  spirit  of  the  inner 
sanctuary  with  the  living  manna  of  love,  as  one  who 
knew  my  whole  nature  could  do. 

Another  idea  possessed  me.  If  I  did  not  fly  to 
tell  that  friend  the  story,  she  might  hear  it  from 
less  partial  lips,  and  perhaps  not  understand  the  mo 
tive.  I  felt  that  I  had  acted  rightly,  although  con- 
Science  said  "too  impulsively;"  and  I  desired  her  to 
feel  my  integrity,  while  I  should  truthfully  relate 
the*  facts. 

How    weary  was  the  dusty  way,   that    afternoon; 


BERENICE.  97 

but,  like  the  traveller  in  the  desert,  who  sees  afar 
the  palm-signal,  waving  its  cooling  green,  to  lure 
him  onward  to  the  small,  sweet  fountain,  with  its 
gurgling  laugh  in  the  welcome  shade,  I  toiled  on. 
I  reached  the  house;  and,  unannounced,  I  stood  before 
the  astonished  woman.  She  regarded  me  in  utter 
amazement;  and  I  could  not  marvel  when  she  told 
me  that  she  looked  on  me  as  one  risen  from  the 
dead. 

The  feet  of  those  who  had  come  to  announce  the 
supposed  fact  departed  from  the  threshold  of  one 
door  while  I  entered  by  the  other.  A  few  mo 
ments  sufficed  for  explanation  of  this,  to  me,  new 
and  startling  feature  of  the  case. 

"They  did  not  miss  you  until  this  morning,  Bere 
nice,"  said  my  friend.  "Then,  the  written  message, 
which  you  left  with  reference  to  your  clothing,  was 
taken  as  a  token  that  you  meant  yourself  harm.  In 
short,  they  believed  you  had  committed  suicide." 

Such  a  thought  had  never  entered  my  head.     There 

had    been   a   great    alarm,    as   I   afterwards    learned. 

The  whole  village  was  thrown  into  commotion.     Young 

and   old   were   literally   scouring   the   country,    in   all 

9 


98  BERENICE.' 

directions,  searching  for  my  unfortunate  remains. 
Ditches  were  dragged,  and  old  wells,  which  had  long 
ago  fallen  into  disuse,  were  peered  into  with  eager 
eyes,  in  expectation  to  behold  my  pale,  dead  face 
amid  the  rubbish  at  the  bottom. 

In  short,  it  was  very  evident  they  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  the  fastidiousness  of  my  taste  with 
reference  to  my  place  of  repose  for  the  long  sleep. 
It  was  not  the  only  time  my  idiosyncrasies  have 
been  mistaken  for  madness  or  folly. 

I  felt  really  chagrined  to  have  acquired  so  sud 
denly  such  an  unenviable  notoriety  among  my  village 
peers,  when  my  only  aim  had  been  to  throw  off 
the  shackles  which  a  false  position  had  imposed  on 
me. 

My  friend  soothed  and  petted,  and  tried  to  exact 
a  promise  from  me  that  I  would  stay  at  least  the 
night  with  her.  But  the  bird  was  fledged,  and  proud 
to  use  its  wings.  More  than  all,  I  had  expressly 
stated  to  the  mistress  of  the  boarding-house  that  I 
should  return  before  night;  and  my  word  must  not 
be  forfeited.  So,  in  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  I 
retrod  the  way  to  my  labor-home  that  was  to  be. 


BERENICE.  9& 

I  half  suspected  some  mischief  brewing  against  my 
new-fledged  endeavor,  from  my  friend's  over-anxiety 
to  detain  me.  And  I  was  right  in  my  suspicions; 
for,  that  very  night,  in  the  first  hour  of  the  deep 
sleep  into  which  my  weariness  had  plunged  me,  I 
was  taken  in  my  uncle's  arms,  —  I  was  but  a  slen 
der  armful,  —  consigned  to  a  carriage,  driven  care 
fully  to  his  house,  and  placed  in  bed  without  awaking ; 
and  all  that  night  my  unconscious  head  pressed  the 
pillow  on  which  it  had,  through  so  many  years, 
been  visited  by  changeful  dreams. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes,  when,  in  the 
morning,  I  awoke  in  my  own  "little  room  in  our 
town  home.  But  it  was  my  beautiful  aunt,  with 
her  fresh  smiling  lips  bent  close  to  mine,  shedding 
from  her  dear  eyes  down  into  my  soul  that  warmth 
of  affection  I  had  so  longed  for  from  her.  It  was 
mine  at  last.  I  felt  it,  —  knew  it,  —  and  no  earthly 
thing  can  ever  again  yield  me  the  peaceful  satisfac 
tion  and  calm  deliciousness  of  that  unspoken,  but 
heartfelt  joy. 

I  thought  I  had  been  dreaming;  but,  as  I  awoke 
more  fully  to  the  pain  of  my  blistered  feet,  I  was 


100  BERENICE. 

reassured  that  the  experience  of  the  last  two  days, 
or  nights,  was  a  reality. 

"Aunt,  how  came  I  here?  I  was  to  go  to  work 
in  the  noisy  mill  to-day.  Is  it  right  not  to  go 
when  I  have  promised?" 

My  aunt  just  laid  her  soft  hand  upon  my  fore 
head,  silencing  me  with  tenderness,  —  the  holy  mater 
nal  tenderness  which  she  knew  so  well  to  give.  She 
was  most  judicious,  just  at  that  critical  moment  of 
my  life.  A  single  harsh  word,  or  one  unkind  look, 
then,  would  have  steeled  me  into  wilfulness  forever; 
and  even  she,  who  had  so  much  influence,  could  not 
have  saved  me  from  the  hungry  ocean  of  the  outer 
life.  But  she  did  save  me  with  love;  and,  when 
she  spoke,  her  voice,  so  flute-like  in  its  pure  tones, 
subdued  me  into  a  yielding  submission  to  anything 
from  her.  She  said,  "You  must  not  talk,  Berenice! 
Everything  is  as  it  should  be  now ;  and  you  will 
never  leave  us  again." 

I  felt  composed,  and  sweetly  happy ;  for  I  knew  that 
we  understood  each  other  at  last.  That  was  enough 
for  me. 

My  uncle   forgave  me  less   readily.     He  considered 


BERENICE.  101 

me  a  wayward,  naughty  girl ;  and  I  believe  he  thought 
it  would  do  me  good  to  lock  me  up  in  the  closet  every 
day. 

My  aunt  plead  for  me  earnestly;  so  at  length  he 
came  to  realize  that  my  innate  love  of  independence 
was  neither  a  wrong  nor  a  dangerous  attribute  to 
indulge.  After  that,  there  was  a  sphere  of  action 
assigned  me  in  the  household ;  a  certain  share  of 
the  arrangements  of  my  aunt's  affairs  was  given  to 
my  sole  charge,  and  a  liberal  allowance  for  my  wants 
set  apart.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  remain  with  them 
in  freedom  on  any  other  conditions.  And  thus  I 
secured  emancipation  from  the  galling  thraldom  which 
had  oppressed  me. 
9* 


CHAPTER    X. 

Two  years  went  by,  while  nothing  of  note  occurred, 
except  that  I  tool^  to  scribbling  poetry,  which  was 
and  properly  laughed  at  by  my  aunt;  for  to  her 
and  one  other  person  only  did  I  dare  show  my 
treasured  productions. 

That  other  was  my  teacher.  She  never  laughed 
at  me,  but  solemnly  bade  me  cultivate  the  gift. 

I  had  little  time  for  sentiment,  or  I  might  have 
been  spoiled  by  her  injudicious  encouragement. 

I  was  always  dreaming  and  wishing  for  my  father. 
I  was  told  that  he  had  been  removed  from  the  asy 
lum,  his  case  being  considered  hopeless.  Recently, 
my  aunt  had  spoken  of  him  to  me,  when  she  saw 
how  I  clung  to  the  wish  to  see  him  ;  and  set  about 
making  arrangements  for  me  to  take  the  journey. 

I  was  put  on  board  a  packet-ship,  bound  for  the 
north-east  coast  of  Maine,  for  it  was  near  our  old 


BERENICE.  103 

residence  that  my  father  was  living.  The  necessity 
for  rigid  economy  governed,  in  a  measure,  the  selec 
tion  of  his  place  of  abode,  —  his  whole  means,  since 
the  loss  of  his  property,  consisting  of  a  pension  re 
ceived  from  government  for  services  rendered  his 
adopted  country,  as  an  officer  in  the  army,  in  the 
old  Revolutionary  War.  It  was  a  blessed  bounty 
so  far  as  it  went. 

I  was  placed  in  charge  of  the  captain  of  the 
packet.  Favoring  winds  wafted  us  pleasantly  on. 
We  anchored  in  the  bay ;  and,  disembarking,  I  stood 
once  again  on  the  shore,  where,  ten  years  before,  I 
bade  farewell  to  my  father.  He  was  not  there  to 
welcome  me ;  for  I  had  yet  to  travel  some  miles 
over  land  before  I  could  meet  him. 

I  turned  sick  and  faint  as  I  came  in  sight  of 
the  old  homestead,  and  saw  how  ruined  it  looked. 
A  portion  of  it  had  been  destroyed  by  fire,  set  by 
some  fanatical  retainer  of  our  family,  who  was  heard 
to  declare  "if  the  'squire  (my  father)  could  not 
live  in  his  own  house,  no  one  else  should."  And, 
in  the  dead  watches  of  the  night,  he  attempted  the 
destruction,  which  time  was  sure  to  bring,  of  the 


104  BERENICE. 

old  house.  Either  the  plot  was  ineffective,  or  it  was 
discovered  too  early  for  the  mischief  to  be  consum 
mated  ;  for  only  a  minor  portion  of  the  building  bore 
the  marks  of  the  consuming  element. 

I  believe,  as  there  was  no  one  living  in  the  house 
at  the  time,  the  individual  who  thus  braved  martyr 
dom  in  his  mistaken  zeal  for  right  and  justice, 
escaped,  or  was  allowed  to  go  unpunished. 

I  glanced  up  at  the  little  turret,  where  I  had 
passed  so  many  happy  hours,  and  over  the  smooth 
greensward,  where  I  used  to  play  at  "  goal."  There 
stood  the  large-leaved,  wide-branching  sycamore,  the 
tree  where  I  used  to  swing,  and  beg  for  one  toss 
more  before  the  "old  cat  died,"  as  we  children 
termed  it.  All  was  unchanged;  only  the  tree  looked 
a  little  stouter  for  years,  and  I  thought  the  grass 
a  shade  less  bright  than  memory  painted  it. 

I  wished  to  go  into  my  mother's  room.  But  the 
house  was  occupied  by  some  foreigners,  to  whom 
cleanliness  was  not  a  virtue,  and  the  sickening  change 
deterred  me. 

Still,  it  was  the  spot  where  I  was  born;  it  was 
once  my  home ;  and  my  heart  thrilled  to  the  old, 


BERENICE.  105 

half-forgotten  harmonies,  for  the  everlasting  murmur 
of  the  waves  was  in  my  ear. 

It  was  morning  when  we  left  the  ship,  and  mid- 
afternoon  when  we  arrived  at  our  destination. 

I  saw  not  one  familiar  face,  though  I  wras  known 
to  many,  who  greeted  me  with  cordial  warmth.  I 
knew  it  was  for  my  parents'  sake,  and  softly  blessed 
them  for  the  precious  tribute. 

It  was  deemed  advisable  to  wait  until  the  next 
day  before  I  should  visit  my  father.  I  was  wild 
with  impatience,  but  so  grateful  for  the  kindness 
heaped  on  me,  that  I  became  submissive  as  a  child 
at  prayer  beside  its  mother's  knees. 

With  a  fond  longing  I  prepared  myself  the  ensu 
ing  day  to  see  him  who  had  filled  every  thought  for 
so  many  long  months,  I  might  say  years. 

My  kind  entertainer,  Mrs.  Lester,  who  had  known 
him  well  from  his  youth,  accompanied  me  on  the 
visit. 

We  were  driving  through  the  centre  of  the  thriv 
ing  and  populous  town,  when  I  observed  a  crowd 
of  boys  gathering  about  some  object  which  could  not 
be  clearly  discerned.  As  we  drew  nearer,  I  saw 


106  BERENICE. 

it  was  a  man,  evidently  in  great  wrath,  gesticulating 
and  speaking  loud  and  fast  to  the  throng  of  mock 
ing  Urchins. 

A  thought  flashed  painfully  across  my  mind,  as  I 
fixed  my  eyes,  half  doubting,  on  the  strange  vision. 

His  garments  were  fantastically  bedecked  with  sea- 
shells  and  mosses ;  in  his  hands  a  trident-shaped 
spear ;  and  on  his  head  a  crown  of  yellow  sea 
weed  gleamed  palely  in  the  sunlight ;  and  the  chil 
dren  shouted,  in  discordant,  heartless  tones,  "  Hurrah  ! 
old  Neptune,  the  god  of  the  sea  !  "  But  that  long 
floating  hair,  and  high,  broad  forehead,  it  must  be,  it 
could  be  no  other. 

"  Berenice,  your   father  !     We   will   turn  back  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  I  cried,  as  she  gave  the  order  to  the 
driver  to  turn  down  a  side  street.  "No;  I  must 
go  to  him  now  ! " 

"  You  cannot,  my  child.  You  cannot  bear  it  here, 
and  thus.'7 

But  I  did  not  heed  her.  I  sprang  from  the  car 
riage,  and  made  my  way  among  the  rude  assailants 
to  my  father's  side.  I  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing 
but  him.  I  drew  near — nearer,  and  looked  in  his  face. 


BERENICE.  107 

He  did  not  know  me,  but  his  eyes  lost  their  wild 
expression  when  he  saw  my  tears,  and  noticed  my 
supplicating  attitude. 

I  could  not  speak.  I  could  only  stretch  my  arms 
imploringly  towards  him. 

He  said,  in  his  mildest  tones,  "  You  are  an  angel. 
I  think.  But  you  weep.  Do  not  weep!"  And  he 
took  a  tress  of  his  long  hair  to  wipe  away  my  tears. 

"My  father!"  I  cried,  "do  you  not  know  me, — 
your  child,  —  your  Berenice!"  and  I  flung  myself 
on  his  neck,  for  I  could  not  stand  alone. 

The  crowd  of  boys  and  idle  people  felt  a  touch 
of  pity,  and  drew  aside.  My  father  saw  and  knew 
Mrs.  Lester,  who  had  followed  me  to  the  spot. 

"My  good  friend,"  said  he,  "I  have  found  an 
angel !  "  and  I  felt  his  arm  clasping  nervously  around 
me ;  "  but  I  have  no  home  to  take  her  to.  Yet, 
because  she  is  on  earth,  and  fair,  and  young,  —  be 
cause  she  is  weak,  and  trembles  in  my  arms,  — 
because  I  have  a  daughter,"  —  his  voice  was  husky, 
—  "and  because  she  called  me  'Father,'  and  named 
herself  '  Berenice,'  I  wish  you  to  take  her  to  your 
home,  and  let  me  go  also." 


108  BERENICE. 

0 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  responded  Mrs.  Lester. 
"Here  stands  my  carriage.  Come!" 

"  Come,  pretty  one,"  said  he,  "and  if  you  be  my 
child,  I  am  the  happiest  father  living.  If  you  be 
not, — but  who  would  dare  deceive  the  poor  old  man, 
who  has  lost  everything  but  his  one  child,  and  she 
so  long  an  alien? 

"  Why  did  they  keep  you  from  me,  if  you  are 
my  child?" 

"I  am  your  child, — your  own,  own  child!  And 
I  have  longed,  0,  so  much,  to  see  you !  I  have 
dreamed  of  you  by  night,  and  thought  of  you  by 
day;  and  felt  the  lack  of  you  a  weariness  too  heavy 
to  be  borne. 

"  Will  you  not  own  me,  father  ?  I  am  your 
child." 

"Your  words  seem  honest,  and  your  tears  seem 
true.  But  I  have  been  so  balked,  so  cheated  by 
worldlings,  sharpers,  I  almost  fear  to  trust  the  angel 
I  have  found. 

"0,  pretty  one !  how  raven-dark  your  smooth 
hair  lies  above  your  fair  white  brow  !  "  and  he  fondly 
stroked  my  head  with  both  his  hands. 


BERENICE.  109 

"Is  it  not  like  my  mother's?"  I  timidly  asked; 
for  I  felt  sure  that  the  strong  ties  of  blood  and 
nature  were  tugging  at  his  heart,  and  he  must  know 
me. 

He  murmured  to  himself,  "  The  voice  is  like  hers 
—  strangely  like  the  patient  and  lovely  one.  But 
she  is  dead,  —  my  child  was  lost  to  me,  —  and  I  am 
all  alone.  Fair  angel,  did  you  meet  my  wife  in 
heaven ;  and  can  you  sing  the  song  she  used  to 
sing  on  earth?" 

My  fortitude  returned  with  my  earnest  wish  to 
make  my  father  know  me,  —  to  find  some  page  in 
memory's  folded  leaves  whose  characters  should  bring 
me  anew  to  his  benighted  soul. 

We  were  just  at  Mrs.  Lester's  door;  and  I  said, 
half  playfully,  "  Will  you  give  me  the  crown  you 
wear,  if  I  will  promise  to  sing  you  the  very  song 
she  sang,  and  that  you  loved  so  much  to  hear?" 

As  we  entered  the  house,  he  took  it  from  his 
head,  and  placed  it  in  my  hand,  saying : 

"  Would  you  like  to  know,  fair  angel,  why  I  wear 
it?  It  is  partly  for  a  victory  won  over  myself. 
But  that  is  a  secret.  No  one  knows  it.  And, 
10 


110  BERENICE. 

partly  to  make  me  bear  always  in  mind  how  I  am 
crowned  with  evils,  dark  and  dire!" 

"  Men  tell  me  I  am  shattered  here ;  "  and  he  mourn 
fully  touched  his  brow.  "It  is  not  so!  It  is  they 
who  are  mad.  I  am  perfectly  sane.  True,  I  have  odd 
fancies  sometimes,  —  quite  different  from  the  others, 
you  see,  —  and  then  they  call  me  mad,  and  the  boys 
in  the  street  insult  the  poor  old  man.  But  you  are 
weeping  again !  "  and  again  he  tried  to  dry  my  tears 
with  a  tress  of  his  silvery  hair. 

Mrs.  Lester  sat  watching  us  with  mournful  interest. 

I  bethought  me  of  the  song  he  had  desired  so  much 
to  hear.  I  knew  my  voice  was  very  like  my  mother's 
in  quality,  and  I  recalled  her  style  exactly. 

As  first  he  listened,  he  gazed  earnestly  in  my  face ; 
then,  gradually,  the  lines  of  his  visage  relaxed,  the 
eyelids  quivered  and  "fell ;  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast, 
and  two  large,  round  tears  rolled  down  his  withered 
cheeks.  Then  his  hand  tightened  its  grasp  of  mine ; 
a  shivering  spasm  passed  over  him ;  and,  as  I  lingered 
on  the  last  plaintive  strain,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and, 
with  one  burst  of  hysterical  joy,  cried  out, 

"  My  daughter !  —  my  own  Berenice  !  " 


BERENICE.  Ill 

Such  a  moment  of  holy  ecstasy  is  not  often  given 
to  mortals,  as  that  one  in  •which  I  felt  that  for  a 
little  time  my  father's  reason  was  as  perfect  as  my  own ; 
that  I  was  surely  recognized,  and  that  iny  existence 
was  priceless  to  him. 

How  earnestly  he  lent  himself  to  all  my  wishes ! 
He  wore  no  more  the  fantastic  decorations  in  which 
I  first  found  him;  but  he  would  sit  for  hours  for 
me  to  pass  my  hands  over  his  weary  head.  He  said 
my  fingers  felt  like  little  fans  of  ice,  and  soothed  him 
deliciously.  We  walked  together,  and  no  rude  rabble 
assailed  us  more.  They  would  have  been  daring, 
indeed,  who  could  stand  before  my  flashing  eyes 
when  he  was  in  danger.  We  had  changed  places; 
for,  if  evil  threatened  him,  the  child  protected  the 
father. 

For  three  months  he  was  docile  as  a  lamb  to  every 
wish  of  mine  before  it  was  half  uttered.  But  I  had 
miscalculated  my  strength.  The  incessant  tax  on  my 
physical  and  the  strain  on  my  nervous  system  proved 
too  much  for  me.  I  was  taken  seriously  ill,  and  forced 
to  keep  my  bed ;  and,  worse  than  all,  I  was  denied  the 
privilege  of  seeing  my  father. 


112  B  E  11  E  N  I  C  E  . 

I  heard  him  storming  at  the  refusal;  and,  as  the 
paroxysm  increased,  and  his  voice  grew  louder  and 
fiercer,  I  could  not  endure  it.  He  accused  Mrs.  Lester 
of  having  spirited  me  away  to  torment  him. 

Nerved  with  sudden  energy,  I  arose,  and  went  down 
to  him,  with  only  my  white  wrapper  about  me. 

He  did  not  see  me  until  I  threw  my  arms  around 
him.  He  was  subdued  in  an  instant. 

I  said,  "  Dear  father,  I  am  sick,  but  will  be  better 
in  a  few  days,  if  you  will  be  patient  until  then,  and 
not  distress  Mrs.  Lester ;  for,  indeed,  she  is  very  kind 
to  us !  " 

"  0,  my  angel,  how  white  you  are !  as  white  as 
your  mother  when  these  eyes  took  their  last  look  of 
her.  I  see,  I  see  how  it  is.  You  will  never  be  well  if 
your  old  father  comes  raving  after  his  darling.  Yet 
it  is  so  hard  to  lose  you,  dear,  as  soon  as  found !  But  I 
must  wear  the  old  crown  yet.  I  thought  it  was  laid 
aside  forever.  There ;  kiss  me,  pretty  one,  and  I  will  go ! " 

And  then  he  tore  himself  away,  and  rushed  from 
the  house  as  wild  as  before. 

I  had  one  of  my  old-fashioned  fits  of  rigid  uncon 
sciousness,  and  was  carried,  helpless,  to  my  chamber. 


BERENICE.  113 

As  I  grew  better,  I  found  my  desire  to  renew  the 
care  of  my  father  must  be  abandoned  ;  for  he  was  again 
violent  and  unmanageable,  except  through  the  most 
careful  and  constant  watch  and  discipline.  I  saw  that 
it  was  best,  and  submitted  to  the  iron  hand. 

Aunt  Clare  had  written  for  me  to  return,  —  expected 
me,  —  nay,  needed  me,  she  said.  Under  the  existing 
state  of  affairs,  it  could  be  no  possible  benefit  for  me  to 
remain,  and  I  prepared  to  obey  her.  It  was  late  in 
the  chilly  autumn  when  I  arrived  at  home,  with  one 
weight  removed,  but  another  saddled  to  the  load  which 
was  crushing  my  youth. 

I  can  never  forgive  myself  for  leaving  that  shore 
while  he  lived ;  for,  if  I  had  staid,  I  might  have  saved 
him  from  the  fate  that  overtook  him. 

In  the  depths  of  that  dreary  mid-winter  he  stealthily 
escaped  from  his  tedious  confinement,  and  fled,  no  one 
knew  whither.  They  sought  him  for  several  days 
without  avail.  At  last  they  found  him,  frozen  to  death, 
in  a  lonely  field,  under  the  cold,  keen  starlight. 

The  tidings  reached  me  in  the  midst  of  the  gay  world 
in  which  I  lived.  I  was  glad  he  had  passed  from 
10* 


114  BERENICE. 

human  suffering  to  the  clear  spirit-world  ;  but  I  grieved 
over  the  manner  of  the  mournful  exit. 

People  called  me  the  proud,  cold  Berenice  De  Thou. 
The  mantle  of  womanhood  was  folded  over  a  frozen 
heart  before  happy  childhood  had  laughed  its  roses 
into  bloom;  a  huge  and  gloomy  shadow  had  shut  me 
from  the  sunshine.  And  now  the  sunshine  withered 
me  as  I  stood  in  its  full  glare.  I  almost  missed  the 
screen,  half  wondering  what  had  befallen  me.  As  I 
said,  I  lived  in  the  gay  world ;  and  none  knew  that  I 
had  lost  my  father. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

A  DISTANT  relative  of  Uncle  Clare's,  a  Miss  Bur 
ton,  was  spending  the  winter  with  us ;  and  we  went 
a  great  deal  into  society,  and  had  much  company  at 
home.  Miss  Burton  was  fashionable,  witty,  gifted 
with  splendid  colloquial  powers,  and  a  blue.  She 
gathered  around  her  a  circle  of  intellectual  and  cul 
tivated  people.  This  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  see 
ing  and  hearing  more  of  that  peculiar  class,  the 
literati,  than  I  could  ever  have  done  with  only  Aunt 
Clare  as  chaperon. 

Miss  Burton  said  I  was  a  genius,  and  a  prod 
igy,  and  took  me  under  her  wing  as  "a  bird  of  a 
feather."  With  the  persons  with  whom  she  mingled 
most  she  called  me  her  unfledged  phoenix.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  because,  one  day,  when  I  ventured  to 
display  to  my  aunt  some  verses,  which  I  flattered 
myself  into  believing  a  brilliant  effort  of  genius, 


116  BERENICE. 

she  expressed  her  peremptory  disapprobation  of  the 
whole  thing,  and  advised  me  to  leave  off  such  nonsense, 

I,  in  the  passion  of  my  mortified  spirit,  made  an 
auto-da-fe  in  the  garden,  and  gave  to  the  hungry 
flames  the  record  of  my  girlish  thoughts.  Miss  Bur 
ton  begged  for  one  little  paper,  which  she  called  a 
gem ;  but  I  disrespectfully  snatched  it  from  her,  and 
threw  it  upon  the  blazing  pyre,  saying, 

"  So  perish  every  vestige  that  might  witness  I  ever 
had  a  thought,  a  feeling  beyond  the  circumference  of 
my  daily  duties !" 

Miss  Burton  said  it  was  done  with  the  air  of  a 
tragedy-queen.  Aunt  Clare  somewhat  dryly  remarked 
that  ashes  were  very  good  to  spread  over  the  garden- 
beds  in  the  spring ;  and  she  doubted  not  that  was  the 
wisest  use  to  which  I  could  apply  my  accumulations  of 
paper.  I  shut  myself  in  my  room,  and  cried  an  hour. 
The  next  day  I  went  about  singing  as  happy  as  a 
homeless  bird,  and  wore  the  yoke  of  authority  with 
the  best  possible  grace.  I  kept  my  vow  from  that 
time  for  years.  I  made  myself  content  to  sit  down 
"  in  the  dark  house  of  the  body,  cooking  victuals, 
lighting  fires." 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THERE  was  a  gathering  of  the  elite  of  the  liter 
ary  world  at  the  residence  of  one  of  the  fashionable 
ladies  of  "  Our  Circle,"  as  a  certain  set  of  people 
called  themselves.  The  Clare  family  were  among 
the  guests,  and  the  Clare  family  included  Miss  Bur 
ton  and  myself. 

The  arts  and  sciences  were  liberally  discussed,  and 
many  dainty  little  bits  of  fashionable  commonplaces 
served  to  fill  up  the  spaces  where  silence  might  creep 
in;  for  the  most  brilliant  people  cannot  always  com 
mand  their  powers ;  and,  sometimes,  the  dullest  com 
pany  is  where  two  or  three  great  wits  are  brought 
in  contact. 

An  animated  conversation  was  going  on  between 

Miss  Burton  and  G ,  an  author  of  some  merit  in 

his  own  opinion ;  although  his  reputation  was  much 
more  limited  than  he  supposed.  They  were  discussing 


118  BERENICE. 

the  merits  of  a  book,  —  somebody's  autobiography  just 
published. 

"  Sentimental  trash!"  said  G ;  "the  'Sorrows 

of  Werter'  bear  no  comparison  to  the  sorrows  of 
wailing  lovers  of  the  present  day.  I  am  sick  of  it. 
Any  'printed  thing,'  that  can  be  coaxed  into  giv 
ing  utterance  to  this  everlasting  common  groan,  is 
teeming,  overrunning  with  love-stories  and  f  tales 
of  the  affections.'  It  makes  me  weary  of  author 
ship." 

"But,  then,"  said  Miss  Burton,  "you  must  make 
allowance  for  the  age.  It  is  a  story-loving  world; 
and  personal  pronouns  with  broken  hearts  are  as  com 
mon  as  grasshoppers  in  June.  I  don't  know  what  is  to 
become  of  all  the  poor  unfortunates  with  the  citadel 
of  life  in  such  a  shattered  condition.  Fancy  pictures 
them  wandering  up  and  down  droopingly;  and  when 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  feeling  rages  too  mightily,  threat 
ening  destruction,  they  may  prop  themselves  on  bolsters 
of  sympathy,  stuffed  with  down,  plucked  from  the 
winged  Cupids.  No  wonder  we  are  thus  deluged  with 
sentiment.  If  persons  are  impressed,  of  course  they 
must  express,  as  a  natural  consequence ;  and  love  and 


BERENICE.  119 

murder  are  the  only  legitimate  offspring  of  such 
parentage." 

"  And  as  for  language."  exclaimed  G ,  "  every 

superlative  phrase  in  the  English  tongue  is  brought  to 
hear  to  give  body  and  force  to  the  mania  of  romance- 
writing. 

11  Everybody  has  said  everything.  Originality  is 
dead.  Exclusiveness  is  thrust  put  of  society;  while 
conversation  is  knuckled  and  nudged  under  the  ribs  by 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry." 

Poor  G was  suffering  from  a  fit  of  spleen  that 

night.  The  blood  of  the  Bruces,  which  he  boasted,  as 
tracing  from  the  great  Robert  his  proud  lineage,  flowed 
muddy  and  turbid  through  his  vexed  brain.  He 
hated  plebeians,  —  and  they  were  so  plenty  where  he 
dwelt. 

"  There  is  too  much  of  false  sentiment,  I  allow," 
said  Miss  Burton,  "  groping  in  miserable  plight  through 
the  earth.  Some  people  delight  in  reproducing  them 
selves.  They  think  they  have  had  an  experience,  and 
long  to  give  it  to  the  world.  Each  strives  to  write 
his  name  above  his  neighbors.  Among  the  most 
prolific  of  these  may  be  mentioned  various  mismated 


120  BERENICE. 

victims  of  connubial  infelicity,  who  desire  nothing  so 
much  as  to  tell  their  outrages  gracefully  to  the  curious 
world.  Yet  there  is  an  unacknowledged  philosophy 
in  all  this.  It  is  the  crude  instinct  of  artistic  culti 
vation  struggling  into  life.  Individual  recognition  is 
the  first  element  of  growth,  of  human  expansion. 
From  the  first  man  down  to  the  last,  selfhood  is  the 
earliest  perception.  When  the  process  of  universal 
education  shall  be  accomplished,  and  we  know  our 
selves,  then  shall  we  truly  know  each  other,  and 
recognize  those  individual  rights  which  each  soul 
inherits  from  its  Maker.  Not  one  seed  of  humanity 
can  be  lost  from  the  great  garner-house  of  God.  The 
weeds  may  grow  rank  and  poisonous ;  even  they 
are  useful,  serving  as  compost  for  the  arid  earth.  So 
the  germ  of  pure  life  is  nourished.  Let  each  soul  do 
its  devoir;  'tis  not  for  man  to  accept  or  reject. 

''Besides,  you  forget  another  thing,  or  else  you 
do  not  hear  the  mournful  voices  from  dark  lanes, 
close  courts,  and  narrow  alleys,  where  the  children 
of  genius  are  sometimes  found. 

"We  write  for  bread.  Cruel  want  and  merciless 
circumstances  have  pursued  us  to  the  death.  But  for 


BERENICE.  121 

this  light  trash,  which  you  deprecate  so  fiercely, — which, 
being  easily  written  and  suiting  best  the  character  of 
such  as  read  it,  therefore  serves  a  better  purpose  as  food 
for  the  million  than  more  solid  matter  could  do, —  but 
for  this,  we  should '  starve,  or  do  worse ;  for  we  are 
women,  and  your  social  customs  exclude  us  from 
many  employments  which  ought  to  be  open  to  us. 
Even  in  this,  strong  men  jostle  us  from  our  slender 
foothold,  taking  the  lion's  share  of  the  little  our  poor 
brains  will  yield.  We  do  not  seek  fame,  present  or 
prospective.  We  want  bread.  We  must  do  the  work 
of  to-day,  not  daring  to  think  of  to-morrow." 

I  was  listening  to  Miss  Burton,  but  watching  a  scene 
enacting  just  then  not  far  from  where  we  sat. 

Standing  in  a  window-recess,  half  concealed  by  grace 
ful  drapery,  were  two  persons ;  one  a  fair  woman, —  her 
companion  a  man  past  youth,  but  elegant  in  middle 
manhood.  He  had  taken  her  hand  in  an  idle,  not  a 
lover-like  way.  Her  small,  finely-shaped  head  was 
eloquent  with  expression,  as  she  half  turned  from  her 
companion  looking  out  into  the  murky  night,  so  that 
the  street-lamps  lighted  up  her  face  while  she  was 
speaking. 

11 


122  BERENICE. 

"You  see  how  it  is.  I  am  helpless,  with  all  the 
mental  wealth  for  which  you  give  me  credit.  What  is 
it  worth,  after  all,  if  it  does  not  avail  for  my  support  ? 
I  am  losing  faith  in  myself, —  am  almost  too  sad  for 
courage.  Ah,  well-a-day !  Poverty  and  disappoint 
ment  are  most  inconvenient  and  irksome  attendants." 

"It  is  true ;  and  public  favor  is  as  fitful  as  the 
wind,  and  often  as  devoid  of  reason,"  said  her  com 
panion.  "But  in  this  new  plan  you  must  succeed. 
Let  us  talk  with  Miss  Burton  and  Mrs.  Llewellyn,  and 
get  their  views  on  this  subject." 

In  another  quarter  of  the  spacious  drawing-room 
the  lady  in  the  window  was  being  talked  over,  or 
rather  her  book.  Is  she  an  unsuccessful  author?  It 
were  better  to  have  never  been  born !  But  she  has 
not  written  a  book ;  she  has  only  compiled  a  volume 
of  "  Elegant  Extracts,"  which  leaves  her  somewhat 
answerable  for  the  sentiments  therein  contained. 

Several  were  expressing  their  opinions.  Among 
others,  Miss  Simper,  who  is  not  exactly  a  member  of 
"  Our  Circle,"  likes  the  book  very  much.  But  she 
thinks  the  extracts  from  Lamartine  have  an  infidel  ten 
dency,  and  ought  to  have  been  omitted. 


BERENICE.  123 

Miss  Starch,  who  is  the  head  and  front  of  a  fash 
ionable  school  for  young  ladies,  thinks  the  selections 
are  not  solid  enough ;  has  a  great  deal  of  sympathy 
for  Mrs.  Mordan;  but  she  shakes  her  head  doubt 
fully. 

"  I  wish  to  know,"  said  Miss  Tremor,  "  who  are  her 
endorsers  for  admission  to  'Our  Circle.'  ' 

""I  am  one,"  said  Mrs.  Llewellyn.  "Will  that 
do?" 

"  0,  certainly,"  replied  the  croaking  Miss  Tremor. 
"I  was  not  aware  that  she  was  your  friend;  "  and  she 
stole  away  to  find  more  congenial  companionships. 

From  such  a  clique  of  heartless  critics  the  soul 
would  fain  escape  into  some  region  of  tolerance.  That 
might  not  be.  Mrs.  Mordan  was  fairly  one  of  "  Our 
Circle."  The  honorable  members  consider  that  a  great 
gain  for  her  ;  for  they  always  stand  by  their  own  as 
long  as  they  stand  by  themselves  ;  —  as  if  the  very 
moment  in  which  one  needs  the  patronage  of  such  a 
body  most,  were  not  that  when  one  is  not  strong 
enough  to  stand  alone. 

The  music  was  hushed;  the  dance  was  done;  the 
party  rose.  Mrs.  Llewellyn  bade  Miss  Burton  and  my- 


124  BERENICE. 

self  to  breakfast  with  her  next  morning,  to  meet  Mrs. 
Mordan.  Mrs.  Llewellyn's  breakfasts  were  choice  affairs, 
delicious  affairs  I  might  say.  Such  coffee,  and  such 
rolls  !  with  fruit,  flesh,  fish,  and  fowl,  to  tempt  the 
daintiest  appetite.  And  then  such  attic  salt  for  sea 
soning  !  A  little  gossip,  too ;  for  people,  however  re 
fined,  cannot  live  without  it. 

Mrs.  Llewellyn,  always  fragile  and  delicate  in  the 
morning,  still  presided  with  perfect  lady-like  grace  at 
the  breakfast-table ;  but  she  had  a  sad  preference  for 
rather  stilted  language. 

"Anna,"  said  Mrs.  Llewellyn,  addressing  Mrs.  Mor 
dan,  "  you  must  remain  with  me  all  winter,  and  mingle 
more  in  the  refinements  of  cultivated  society,  that  you 
may  keep  your  ideal  wound  up  to  that  pitch  which  will 
enable  you  to  cope  with  contemporaries,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  gratify  the  public  mind.  Excuse  me  for 
saying  that  you  are  queer  and  antediluvian  in  your 
notions.  That  last  article  of  yours  shows  perfectly  that 
you  live  too  much  out  of  the  world." 

Circumstances  had  given  Mrs.  Mordan  a  home  in  the 
retirement  of  a  country  parsonage ;  an  excellent  place 
to  grow  in,  but  a  poor  place  for  practice.  As  she  lifted 


BERENICE.  125 

her  eyes  to  reply,  the  tableaux  of  the  breakfast-table, 
with  its  glittering  furniture,  reflected  from  an  opposing 
mirror,  held  her  for  a  moment  in  thought. 

How  changed  from  the  glowing,  artless  companion 
of  her  girlhood  were  the  surroundings  of  this  frigidly 
fashionable,  yet  brilliant  woman  !  And  Mrs.  Mordan 
half  smiled  at  a  contrast  so  forcibly  presented  by  the 
unconscious  plate  glass.  Her  vown  simple  black  dress 
looked  rather  shabby  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Llewellyn's, 
who  reigned  the  "queen  of  fashion,"  in  her  comforta 
ble  and  costly  morning  robe.  But  Anna  Mordan  pos 
sessed  the  independence  of  strong  good  sense,  and 
was  not  afraid  to  be  singular. 

"May  not  excessive  refinement  weaken  and  enervate 
the  intellect,  causing  one  to  become  indifferent  to  the 
realities  of  life,  and  finally  attribute  all  value  to  the 
form  and  appearance  ? 

"It  seems  to  me  there  is  too  much  shallow  formality 
in  your  refined  circles ;  words  magnify  the  significance 
of  things  till  they  seem  greater  than  they  are. 

"All  persons  who  write  truthfully  will  magnetize 
their  readers  into  toleration,  if  not  full  concurrence 

with  their  opinions.     And,  as  every  one  will  be  taken 
11* 


126  BERENICE. 

at  his  or  her  real  value  some  time  or  other,  I  am  con 
tent  to  risk  myself  in  the  race  with  my  competitors, 
and  abide  the  final  issue." 

The  arrival  of  guests  interrupted  further  conversa 
tion  between  the  friends  for  the  time  being. 

Mrs.  Llewellyn  had  attached  to  her  establishment 
an  obsequious  personage,  of  the  feminine  gender,  whom 
I  shall  designate  as  Toady. 

Toady  assisted  Mrs.  Llewellyn  in  various  ways.  But 
her  forte  lay  in  retailing  the  most  piquant  and  exqui 
site  morsels  of  gossip  that  ever  gave  zest  to  the  feast 
of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul.  She  had  conceived 
an  unjustifiable  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Mordan,  that  revealed 
itself  in  a  thousand  petty  ways,  which  none  but  a  close 
observer  could  detect.  Yet  a  skilful  tactician  was 
Toady;  artful  and  insinuating,  with  a  naive  manner, 
and  a  cunning  that  perfectly  posed  the  spectator.  It 
was  a  thousand  times  more  contemptible  than  down 
right  hypocrisy.  She  delighted  in  setting  people  by 
the  ears ;  and,  wherever  there  were  signs  of  a  domestic 
squabble,  Toady  was  there,  armed  to  the  teeth. 

She  would  open  the  gates  of  discord,  and  banish  peace, 
with  most  consummate  skill.  She  was  entirely  unscru- 


BERENICE.  127 

pulous  if  any  plan  of  her  own  could  be  furthered  there 
by;  and  yet  many  persons  trusted  her;  at  least,  in 
"  Our  Circle." 

An  affair  had  just  transpired,  —  a  runaway  match. 
A  beautiful  daughter  of  one  of  our  aristocratic  neigh 
bors  had  eloped  with  and  married  a  person  of  promising 
address,  and  fair  professions,  —  a  reputed  linguist,  who 
gained  access  to  "  Our  Circle"  by  means  of  a  repu 
tation  of  foreign  culture,  and  managed  to  gather  one  of 
the  fairest  flowers  in  our  select  garden  of  roses ;  and, 
after  all,  in  the  hour  of  his  triumph,  boasted  that  he 
was  only  an  ex-music  grinder ;  an  awful  truth  for  the 
daughter's  father,  but  worse  still  for  the  father's 
daughter. 

Now  this  young  girl  was  my  most  intimate  friend. 
She  had  made  me  her  confidant,  under  a  solemn  pledge 
of  secrecy,  which  I  dared  not  break,  although  trem 
bling  at  her  rashness.  Toady  knew  she  was  lacerating 
my  heart  by  every  word  she  uttered ;  and  yet  for 
bore  not  to  give  a  full  and  circumstantial  account  of 
the  whole  affair  to  Mrs.  Mordan.  In  truth  it  was 
an  interesting  theme,  and  in  everybody's  mouth ;  and 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  a  man  should  be  ever 


128  BERENICE. 

so  fascinating,  and  teased  me  ever  so  much,  I  would 
never  run  away  to  be  married. 

Toady  warmed  with  her  subject,  now  that  a  new 
theme  engrossed  her,  and  personality  was  involved. 
She  was  about  to  disclose  a  discovery  of  her  own.  The 
small  eyes  blinked  and  twinkled  through  the  gleam 
ing  glasses  (Toady  had  a  defect  in  the  eyes,  and 
wore  spectacles) ;  the  thin  lips  quivered  and  writhed, 
while  every  line  and  muscle  of  her  cadaverous  face 
emitted  a  malicious  phosphorescent  light. 

By  employing  some  of  her  sly  traits  of  character  to 
aid  in  gratifying  her  curiosity  or  her  malice,  she  had 
found  out  something  which  she  considered  perfectly 
awful. 

0,  if  anybody  is  going  out  of  the  beaten  track. 
Heaven  preserve  her  from  such  an  argus-eyed,  mer 
ciless  watcher !  Better  be  detected  in  an  act  of 
sin  by  a  thousand  angels,  than  by  one  evil-minded 
woman. 

Mrs.  Mordan  shivered  from  head  to  foot  as  she 
listened.  An  indefinite  sense  of  fear  thrilled  her 
brave  heart.  Toady  seemed  to  convey  a  warning  in 
every  motion  of  her  strange,  witchy-looking,  little. 


BERENICE.  129 

hard  hands,  as  she  recounted  the  affair,  all  for  Mrs. 
Mordan's  benefit,  — for,  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  it 
was  not  new,  though  Toady's  enthusiasm,  like  that 
of  a  Pythoness,  made  even  a  twice-told  tale  inter 
esting. 

A  word  of  warning.  Ladies,  beware  of  interfer 
ence  with  other  ladies'  beaux,  whether  married  or 
single  !  There  is  precious  little  magnanimity  in  the 
sex  when  a  lover  is  at  stake.  A  woman  might 
freely  allow  you  the  society  of  her  husband,  when, 
if  you  were  intimate  with  her  lover,  or  seemed  to 
be  so,  she  would  slander  you  to  the  death;  moral 
death,  I  mean,  —  far  more  to  be  dreaded  than  Azra- 
el's  gentle  signal. 

Pardon  the  inference  I  draw,  that  married  ladies 
do  sometimes  have  lovers.  If  they  don't,  nobody 
need  get  angry  about  it.  If  they  do,  the  fact  is 
plain,  they  must  abide  the  penalty. 

Poor  Alide  Judson  !  How  whispering  tongues  can 
poison  truth-!  Her  singular  defection  from  propriety 
was  registered  in  Toady's  book  as  unpardonable ! 
The  delicate  susceptibilities  of  "  Our  Circle"  were 
obliged  to  be  shocked.  Decorum  shrieked  for  re- 


130  BEKENICE. 

dress.      She  was    "  voted  out,"  without  one  dissent 
ing  voice. 

Who  dare  refute  the   mandate  of  such  a  tribunal 

of  outraged  men   and  women  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TOADY  flourished  in  a  good  position  in  the  best 
society,  and  was  playing  a  skilful  game  for  a  hus 
band.  She  possessed  great  advantage  over  many 
prettier  women,  —  sagacious  creature  !  Who  so  well 
as  she  knew  how  to  humor  the  weaknesses  of  men 
and  women,  and  make  them  self-satisfied,  which  is 
the  great  desideratum  of  mankind?  Through  this 
power,  so  eminently  possessed  by  her,  of  making 
people  feel  comfortable,  whether  they  were  so  or  not 
(and  it  would  really  be  a  grand  thing,  if  it  were 
not  a  cheat) ;  by  this  sort  of  glamour,  she  con 
trolled  certain  persons  in  "Our  Circle."  They  bowed 
before  her  like  faithful  subjects  to  the  will  of  an 
imperious  sovereign.  One  most  distinguished  philoso 
pher,  a  man  of  profound  erudition,  was  perfectly 
enthralled  by  her  dexterous  ministerings  to  his  pecu 
liar  needs,  and  her  approval  of  his  peculiar  notions 


132  BERENICE. 

of  religion  and  morals.  It  was  he  who  stood  with 
Mrs.  Mordan  in  the  window-niche  that  night. 

Nothing  escaped  Toady's  eyes.  She  marked  the 
dallying  with  the  hand.  In  her  heart  she  did  not 
believe  anything  could  be  innocent.  She  treasured 
up  that  small  amount  of  indiscretion  in  the  bank  of 
memory,  to  be  disbursed  with  interest. 

She  did  not  know  that  they  were  friends  of  long 
ago ;  that  the  memory  of  one  fair  spirit,  dear  to 
both,  now  immortal,  lost  to  those  children  of  time,  — 
the  sister  of  one,  the  brother  of  the  other,  —  slept 
beneath  a  grassy  mound  in  a  shady  nook  in  the 
churchyard  by  the  parsonage,  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Mordan. 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof."  One 
source  of  gossip  could  not  last  forever;  and  there 
were  several  new  subjects  of  minor  interest  engross 
ing  the  gossip-loving  personages  that  composed  "  Our 
Circle." 

It  held  within  its  limits  many  honorable  members 
of  society,  —  wise  men  and  brilliant  women ;  many 
persons  whom  it  might  be  considered  an  honor  to 
know.  We  had  logicians,  historians,  lawyers,  poets, 


BERENICE.  183 

and  divines ;  each  member  remarkable  for  something,  if 
it  were  only  for  superlative  silliness. 

There  was  our  ardent,  active  Mrs.  Dido,  full  of 
native  vigor  of  thought  and  feeling,  endowed  with  all 
the  varied  attributes  of  womanhood,  together  with  a 
good  degree  of  that  higher  force,  so  rare  in  women, 
which  only  the  most  affluent  natures  may  possess. 
Although  a  thoroughly  literary  woman,  she  had  all 
the  personal  vanity  supposed  to  belong  more  particu 
larly  to  those  who  make  no  pretensions  of  affection 
for  blue-stockings. 

From  the  Grecian  knot  of  glossy  brown  hair, 
which  actually  grew  on  the  head  that  wore  it,  to 
the  black  satin  slipper,  cradling  so  lovingly  the  fairy 
foot;  from  the  fine  lace  kerchief  of  "illusion,"  gath 
ered  around  the  beautifully  moulded  throat,  and  over 
the  swelling  snow  of  her  elegant  bust,  —  tempting 
grace  behind  a  cobweb-screen,  —  (I  am  sadly  afraid, 
ladies,  you  mean  to  be  bewitching  in  displaying  so 
freely  Nature's  favors  to  you;  better  too  little,  than 
too  much) ;  the  very  folds  of  the  simple  robe  con 
cealing,  yet  enhancing,  the  grace  of  the  fair  form; 
everything,  point  device,  bespoke  a  woman  vain 
12 


134  BERENICE. 

enough  to  like  to  be  told  that  she  looked  very 
pretty. 

The  charming  Dido  had  her  faults.  She  could 
not  keep  a  secret,  and  she  was  not  sincere  in  more 
than  half  she  said;  and,  besides  that,  she  was  just 
as  fond  of  gossip  as  anybody  in  "  Our  Circle."  But 
these  were  none  of  them  unpardonable  sins ;  and  fair 
Dido  could  command  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  con 
fessor,  and  do  penance  to  suit  herself. 

Literary  ladies  do  manage  to  get  into  the  most 
decidedly  charming  quarrels  of  any  persons  in  the 
world.  There  is  more  point  to  their  sarcasms  than 
to  those  of  any  other  class,  because  they  know  better 
where  each  other's  vulnerable  points  are. 

Men  are  fierce  in  battle ;  but  it  takes  women  to 
be  merciless  to  each  other.  No  barbaric  torture  ever 
invented  can  match  their  scientific  thrusts.  And  all 
is  done,  too,  with  such  sweet  lips,  and  amiable  eyes  ; 
with  such  a  show  of  disinterested  friendship,  and  as 
though  it  really  hurt  the  feelings  to  be  obliged  to 
speak  what  one  hears  and  is  forced  to  believe,  and 
tell  of,  or  belie  one's  conscience,  until  you  are  per 
fectly  bewildered  by  the  exquisite  duplicity ! 


BERENICE.  135 

In  "Our  Circle"  there  were  many  little  dis 
agreements,  arising  from  the  nature  of  things.  —  some 
proceeding  from  one  cause,  and  some  from  another,  — 
and  the  pretty  creatures  defamed  each  other,  until  it 
seemed  almost  impossible  to  guess  who  was  right  and 
who  was  wrong. 

A  most  interesting  quarrel  was  raging  at  that  time, 
in  "  Our  Circle,"  between  the  fair  Dido  and  a  rival 
sister,  of  kindred  art,  the  magnificent  Inez. 

It  is  supposed,  for  charity's  sake,  that  Dido,  whose 
imagination  was  particularly  a  vivid  one,  fell  into  a 
wicked  day-dream,  and  it  became  so  real  to  her  that 
she  told  it  as  fact.  There  was  great  agitation  and 
fluttering  among  the  laces  and  feathers.  Everybody 
was  upon  the  qui  vive.  Men  sneezed ;  and  the  bas 
blues  of  the  deepest  dye  shook  their  quill-pens  in 
holy  horror,  and  contemplated  their  slip-shod  shoes 
with  pious  amazement. 

And  what  had  Inez  done?  Heaven  only  knows 
what  she  had  done;  but  rumor  said  she  had 
attempted  to  do  a  savage  deed,  —  to  give  her  hus 
band  a  dose  of  oxalic  acid,  which  he  discovered  in 
season  to  decline;  and  that  he  had  most  ungraciously 


136  BERENICE. 

incarcerated  the  lady  for  a  week's  fasting  in  a  cell 
in  the  city  prison;  for  our  town  was  now  a  city. 

Dido  said  that  the  matter,  which  might  have  been 
tragical,  ended  rather  farcically. 

When  Inez  was  summoned  to  court,  no  one  ap 
peared  to  substantiate  the  charge  against  her.  Accord 
ingly,  she  was  discharged,  and  went  off  triumphantly, 
the  report  filling  the  ears  of  the  members  of  "Our 
Circle "  with  mysterious  vibrations. 

Dido  was  evidently  jealous  of  Inez's  rising  popu 
larity,  and  tried  her  best  to  crush  her  at  once  and 
forever.  However,  both  ladies  recovered  their  equi 
librium,  met  often  in  society  on  amicable  terms,  and 
looked  the  most  brilliant  daggers  at  each  other  from 
their  handsome  eyes.  But  they  wisely  buried  the 
hatchet,  and  made  harmony  out  of  discord. 

People  who  stand  in  the  world's  eye  must  ex 
pect  to  be  talked  about.  Everybody's  character  in 
"Our  Circle"  was  thoroughly  canvassed,  as  far  as 
it  was  possible  to  get  at  it;  and  some  of  them  stood 
a  fair  chance  of  having  the  good  read  out  of  them 
like  a  riddle.  Running  the  gauntlet  for  one's  bread 
and  butter  is  never  the  best  method  of  getting  it; 


^BERENICE.  137 

but  it  is  often  adopted  for  want  of  something  more 
feasible. 

I  am  sorry  to  add  that  some  members  of  "Our 
Circle"  lived  queer  lives;  for,  after  all,  the  free 
masonry,  that  brought  them  together,  did  not  unite 
them  to  each  other.  Some  were  nearly  beggars, 
while  others  knew  neither  want  nor  care. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  poor  are  expected 
to  conduct  themselves  with  a  great  deal  more  cir 
cumspection  than  the  rich,  as  though  to  make  up 
in  respectability  what  they  lack  in  lucre.  And,  then, 
the  question  has  a  direct  bearing  on  moral  economy. 
The  rich  can  buy  themselves  out  of  crime,  while 
the  poor  criminal  must  be  tried  and  punished  at 
the  state's  charge. 

How  often  the  rich  are  tempters  to  the  poor, 
those  whose  "  happier  stars "  have  set  them  beyond 
the  reach  of  meagre  want,  can  never  know. 

It  may  be  a  woman,  for  instance,  who  is  struggling 
with  sharp  adversity,  and,  perhaps,  scarcely  strong  or 
wise  enough  to  brave  the  shock  of  fate;  and  some 
noble-hearted  man  discovers  this  child  of  need.  He 
takes  a  strange,  warm  interest  in  all  her  plans ; 


138  BERENICE. 

he  so  strong  and  grand  —  she  so  glad  and  grate 
ful  !  She  knows  no  motive  he  could  have  in  all ; 
and  there  was  none  in  the  beginning  but  the  desire 
to  do  good. 

The  motive  grows  like  a  giant,  nursed  by  circum 
stances  —  she  reposes  so  hopefully  in  this  new-found 
friend;  tells  him,  at  his  earnest  request,  all  her  life 
—  its  trials,  hopes  and  fears.  Full  of  pitying  tender 
ness,  he  soothes  her  cares,  and  gently  natters  her 
to  smiles.  Day  by  day,  little  by  little,  he  wins  her 
confidence,  —  that  holy  confidence  a  woman  gives  when 
she  has  faith  enough  to  trust  the  whole  world ;  that 
belief  in  universal  goodness,  which,  once  lost,  narrows 
us  from  our  great  possession  to  a  gloomy  pent 
house. 

This  earnest  friend  is  coming.  She  finds  herself 
listening  for  his  step  — watching  the  point  where 
first  her  eye  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  him ;  yet 
dreams  she  not  of  danger.  He  knows,  perhaps,  the 
time  will  come  when  she  can  stand  alone,  and  thank 
him  for  his  care  with  honest  dignity.  Before  it 
comes,  he,  unasked,  makes  her  his  confidant. 

He  tells  a  moving  story  of  unanswered  affection  in 


BERENICE.  139 

his  home.  A  blight  is  on  his  heart.  He  is  coldly 
repulsed  where  he  should  find  social  and  domestic 
bliss. 

Is  all  this  sadness  true? — Too  true! 

And  so  it  is.  Wives  of  the  wealthy,  in  your  lux 
urious  homes,  you  do  forget  your  duty.  Sometimes 
a  few  little  words,  uttered  in  pettish  thoughtlessness, 
may  sting  so  keenly  that  a  husband  may  be  driven 
from  your  arms  to  utter  ruin,  —  ruin  worse  than 
death,  —  destroying  forever  the  pure  temple  of  do 
mestic  happiness. 

But  to  return  to  the  picture  Fancy  drew.  He, 
whom  I  spoke  of  just  now,  was  speaking  still, — 
she  listening.  And  there  came  creeping  with  stealthy 
motion  to  her  heart  a  something  that  was  not  there 
before.  Her  benefactor  is  a  suppliant.  He,  so  gen 
erous,  now  appeals  to  her  generosity.  Does  she 
argue  the  question?  That  would  not  avail.  He  can 
out-argue  her.  By  his  good  deeds  he  has  won  her 
confidence,  if  not  her  heart.  Nature  pleads  with  a 
thousand  tongues.  Is  there  none  to  bid  her  back 
from  the  fearful  precipice? 
,  Woman,  woman,  pause  there !  Young,  beautiful, 


140  BERENICE. 

unprotected,  man  has  no  pity  for  you,  though  he  may 
worship,  pouring  adulation  with  every  breath,  while 
you  stand  upon  your  pedestal  of  virtue.  Woe,  if 
you  descend  from  thence !  Though  you  were  almost 
divine,  he  sees  the  downward  stepping.  The  charm 
vanishes ;  you  are  fallen !  Poetry  ceases  to  clothe 
the  unhallowed  intimacy  in  a  garb  of  beauty.  The 
gorgeous  mantle  of  romance  is  stripped  from  it ;  the 
naked  truth  looks  ugly. 

0,  perverse  and  inconsistent  man !  pleading  with  per 
suasive  eloquence  for  the  very  boon  which,  if  granted, 
leaves  a  memory  upon  your  heart,  an  ineffaceable 
shadow,  that  you  would  fain  pluck  away,  but  cannot. 

And  you,  0,  woman!  in  your  conceit,  believe 
that  yours  is  an  exceptional  case,  —  that  your  error 
is  different  from  that  of  all  others.  Blind  security 
of  power!  You  are  vain  in  your  own  eyes.  "More 
rational  than  reason "  you  cannot  be.  You  may  be 
beautiful  as  an  angel,  wise  as  Minerva,  chaste  as 
Diana;  but  all  Heaven's  graces  can  never  reinstate 
you  in  the  estimate  of  him  for  whom  you  have 
laid  aside  your  fairest  grace. 

I  will  not  say  that  there  was   anybody  in  "Our 


BERENICE.  141 

Circle"  so  tempted,  or  so  lost.  But,  then,  there 
may  have  been.  And  such  might  be  the  result 
in  any  circle,  or  even  in  those  wastes  outside,  where, 
God  grant,  a  warning  voice  may  find  an  echo ! 

Most  of  the  members  of  "Our  Circle "  are  now 
scattered  forever,  like  autumn  leaves  buried  in  the 
lap  of  winter;  their  names  and  their  histories  per 
haps  forgotten. 


CHAPTER     XIV. 

SPRING  came,  and  summer  flew  away;  and  that 
glorious,  golden  autumn,  in  its  earlier  days. 

We  set  off  on  a  visit  to  Niagara.  I  can  never 
say  what  I  felt  when  I  beheld,  for  the  first  time, 
that  wonder  of  nature.  The  lateness  of  the  season 
had  scattered  the  gay  troop  of  visitors,  of  whom  so 
many  come  to  gaze,  with  soulless  eyes,  on  that  sub 
lime  spectacle.  We  arrived  late  in  the  evening,  — 
just  giving  a  glance  over  the  scene  by  the  timid 
light  of  the  young  moon ;  and  then  to  sleep,  lulled  by 
that  monotonous  roar,  like  far-off  perpetual  thunder. 

The  morning  dawned  gloriously,  and  I  was  up  to 
welcome  its  very  first  peep  over  the  mist-mantled 
hills.  My  uncle  had  engaged  a  guide  for  me  the 
previous  evening,  for  I  had  conceived  a  whim  that 
I  must  visit  all  the  localities  within  reach,  alone  first, 
and  with  them  afterwards. 


BERENICE.  143 

So  many  have  attempted  a  description  of  that  inde 
scribable  and  awfully  sublime  scene,  that  I  waive  all 
further  attempt,  well  knowing  my  own  inability. 

I  felt  the  wildest  impulse  to  drop  myself  into  the 
abyss,  the  fleecy  foam  rose  so  soft  and  wavingly  from 
that  great  waste-way  of  eternity.  My  evident  excite 
ment  drew  a  gentle  reproof  from  my  aunt,  at  break 
fast,  and  Uncle  Clare  said  my  enthusiasm  was  in 
fectious. 

After  breakfast  we  crossed  over  to  take  a  view 
from  the  Canada  side.  I  desired  to  see  all  the  vari 
ous  phases  in  which  the  falls  could  be  viewed;  and 
I  coaxed  my  uncle  and  aunt  until  they  reluctantly 
consented  to  my  adventuring  under  the  veil  of  the 
fall,  attended  only  by  a  guide,  as  they  declined  to 
keep  me  company  on  the  expedition. 

In  a  few  moments,  equipped  in  the  usual  oil-cloth 
paraphernalia  (which  is  certainly  anything  but  becom 
ing),  my  guide  and  I  descended  the  long  flight  of 
steps  leading  down  from  Table  Rock  to  the  level  of 
the  waterfall.  High  above  our  heads  the  broad  veil 
of  misty  spray  dashes  madly  into  the  foaming  pool 
beneath. 


144  BERENICE. 

A  few  steps,  and  we  had  passed  the  blinding  shower 
which  almost  stops  the  breath,  and  then  the  deaf 
ening  roar  and  the  everlasting  fall  of  the  returnless 
waters  shut  me  from  the  world.  I  was  deaf  and 
blind;  but  for  an  instant  my  sensations  were  of  the 
most  intense  and  rapid  description.  I  felt  a  little 
bewildered ;  but,  refusing  the  assistance  of  my  guide, 
I  passed  out  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  grotto, 
slipping  every  moment  on  the  loose  wet  rocks.  I 
heard  no  word  of  caution,  but,  on  reaching  as  far 
as  I  saw  safe  footing,  I  leaned  forward  to  see  if  I 
might  venture  still  further.  My  feet  slipped  from 
under  me,  and  I  should  inevitably  have  been  lost 
in  the  whirling  waters  but  for  the  grasp  of  a  strong 
hand  dragging  me  from  peril.  It  was  all  in  an 
instant ;  and,  turning,  I  confronted  a  stranger,  not  my 
guide,  though  he  stood  with  his  black  face  fright 
ened  almost  white. 

I  scarcely  realized  the  danger  I  had  escaped.  But 
now  I  felt  safe,  and  rather  glad  to  get  out  once 
more  into  the  open  sunlight  of  day,  whither  I  hur 
ried,  supported  by  his  arm. 

There    we    mutually    paused,   I  and    my  stranger 


BEKENICE.  145 

preserver.  I  withdrew  the  hood  from  my  face,  — 
for  it  seemed  to  stifle  me,  —  and  tried-  to  thank  him. 
"But,"  said  I,  "thanks  are  poor,  and  words  beg 
garly,  that  would  attempt  expression  in  such  a  case. 
Sir,  under  God,  I  believe  you  have  saved  my  life." 
"We  will  thank  God  for  it,"  he  answered,  in 
such  a  tone  it  struck  through  all  the  chords  of  my 
being.  Those  few  simple  words  !  I  felt  no  answer 
coming  to  my  lips,  and  it  seemed  natural  I  should  be 

to   ' 

silent. 

Presently  he  spoke  again :  "I  have  a  favor  to  ask 
of  you.  Do  not  mention  this  occurrence  to  any  per 
son.  I  had  rather  it  would  not  be  spoken  of." 

"I  will  not,"  I  replied.  "I  am  glad  not  to  have 
it  generally  known;  for,  if  my  aunt  and  uncle  were 
aware  of  the  danger  I  have  so  carelessly  risked,  they 
would  never  trust  me  again." 

I  looked  into  his  face  as  I  finished  speaking;  our 
eyes  met;  a  shiver  ran  through  me;  in  that  one 
full  look  our  souls  met  forever. 

I  retrod  the  broken  staircase,  —  found  my .  uncle 
awaiting  me  at  the  top.  I  was  soon  dressed  anew, 
in  the  carriage  beside  my  autit,  and  we  were  hur- 
13 


146  BERENICE. 

rying  to  the  boat  as  fast  as  the  horses  would  carry 
us. 

Uncle   Clare   said,    "How   pale   Berenice   is!" 

"Fatigue,"  said  my  aunt.  But  a  still  small  voice 
in  the  heart  whispered,  "something  besides  that." 
I  said  to  myself,  "I  have  met  my  destiny!" 

As  we  reached  the  boat  I  observed  a  noble-look 
ing  young  man,  with  his  back  towards  us,  standing 
with  his  hand  upon  the  prow,  just  ready  to  spring 
on  board.  My  heart  beat  fast.  He  turned.  It  was 
the  hero  of  my  last  half-hour's  dream.  By  a  trifling 
chance  he  took  a  seat  beside  me,  and  -I  had  leisure 
for  thought  with  reference  to  him;  and  I  did  think 
him  a  perfect  realization  of  my  ideal. 

We  chatted  together,  as  even  strangers  may,  as 
we  walked  from  the  boat  to  the  hotel.  The  young 
stranger  took  from  his  bosom  a  handkerchief,  which 
he  gracefully  presented  to  me.  It  was  mine.  I 
remembered  I  had  placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  my 
water-proof  dress,  when  going  under  the  falls,  and 
had  not  thought  of  it  since.  It  had  my  name  writ 
ten  in  full  on  the  corner. 

After  he   was  gone  I  wondered   if  he  had  noted 


BERENICE.  147 

it,  and  half  wished  I  might  have  had  the  like  op 
portunity  of  discovering  his  name;  yet  I  took  a 
romantic  pleasure  in  assuring  myself  that  a  name 
could  be  no  heljb  to  his  long  life  in  my  memory. 

The  next  day  we  returned  to  Buffalo,  and  so  on 
our  way  home.  I  wondered,  as  girls  will,  if  I  should 
ever  meet  the  gallant  stranger  again.  The  adventure 
furnished  me  food  for  thought,  and  material  for  cas 
tle-building,  until  I  was  ashamed  to  build  castles  any 
more  on  so  slender  a  foundation. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE  next  summer  we  were  spending  the  warm 
months  at  the  dear  old  farm-house  at  Lealands. 
Five  years  had  made  its  changes  in  many  respects, 
—  few  in  the  place,  but  more  in  individuals.  But 
most  marked  of  all  was  the  change  in  the  little  brown 
slip  of  a  girl,  now  developed  into  a  full-grown  woman. 
The  dear  Dr.  Gaston  was  there,  and  I  loved  him  very 
much,  — just  as  I  could  have  loved  a  brother,  had .  one 
been  spared  to  me. 

There  came  a  suitor  for  my  hand  in  those  days; 
one  whose  fancy  I  mocked  at,  for  I  could  not  make 
it  seem  sincere.  The  young  man  protested ;  I  ignored 
his  protestations,  and  listened  to  the  voice  of  my 
heart,  to  see  what  it  would  teach  me. 

It  is  a  wrong  thing  to  educate  girls  in  the  idea 
that  marriage  is  the  grand  ultimatum  of  girlhood;  and 
almost  make  them  consider  it  is  a  disgrace  not  to 


BERENICE.  149 

get  a  husband.  This  is  the  parents'  fault;  a  fault,  it 
is  true,  that  -  has  the  sanction  of  custom ;  a  custom 
to  which,  almost  unconsciously,  the  wisest  and  best- 
meaning  mothers  succumb.  The  young  girl  begins, 
almost  before  she  has  laid  aside  her  childish  toys, 
to  think  of  lovers,  bridals,  and  where  she  will  go 
to  make  her  bridal  tour. 

This  may  be  among  the  wealthy.  Then,  cast 
your  eye  along  the  middle  classes  of  society,  who 
are  too  prone  to  ape  the  fashions  of  those  higher 
in  the  social  scale,  —  mothers  and  fathers,  struggling 
through  all  sorts  of  self-denials,  in  order  to  give 
their  young  daughters  accomplishments  which  shall 
render  them  attractive  or  irresistible  to  men,  that 
they  may  be  able  to  secure  a  husband  from  a  higher 
station  in  life  than  they  themselves  have  been  able 
to  occupy.  It  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  these 
little  ones,  —  sickly,  perhaps,  —  no  matter  !  they  must 
go  to  dancing  assemblies,  balls  and  operas,  because 
it  is  the  mode. 

The  young  mind  requires  diversion,  and  it  has  a 
refining  effect  on  the  manners ;  so  the  mother  thinks, 
and  then,  when  the  "bachelors'  ball"  comes  round, 
13* 


150  BERENICE. 

the  butterfly  mothers  decorate  the  butterfly  daughters. 
True  they  do  look  like  little  fairies,  in  their  deli 
cate  gauzes  and  silver-tissue  robes,  with  gay  gar 
lands  on  their  innocent  brows. 

Innocent,  did  I  say?  Alas,  for  the  innocence  of 
childhood  raised  in  the  hot-bed  of  fashionable  life ! 
It  takes  its  flight  with  the  roses  from  the  tender 
cheeks,  with  the  sweetness  of  the  breath.  •  rendered 
impure  by  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  a  crowded  dancing- 
hall,  or  the  pernicious  indulgence  of  improper  food  at 
most  improper  hours. 

"  Doctor,  I  don't  know  what  ails  my  little  girl," 
says  the  faded  mother  of  a  languid  child. 

"I  see  nothing  but  the  effects  of  over-excitement. 
Keep  her  quiet,  and  let  her  eat  plain  food,  and  exer 
cise  in  the  open  air." 

"  0,  she  has  plenty  of  exercise  !  She  goes,  twice  in 
the  week,  to  dancing-school ;  and,  in  a  few  days,  there 
is  to  be  a  grand  gala- night,  and " 

The  doctor  shakes  his  head  and  says,  "  It  is  the  worst 
thing  your  child  can  do.  The  night  air  is  poison  to 
her ;  and  still  worse  the  excitement  and  overheating 
of  dancing  in  a  crowded  room." 


BERENICE.  151 

"Just  this  once,  doctor;  for  she  will  he  so  disap 
pointed  if  she  can't  go  !  " 

"  Better  not,"  says  the  man  of  physic. 

But  the  child's  wish  conquers  the  weak  mother ; 
and  the  consequence  may  be  the  sowing  of  the  seeds 
of  baneful  evil  in  the  child's  moral  and  physical 
nature  which  will  never  be  eradicated. 

It  is  true  that  we  live  again  in  our  children.  The 
wise  few  prove  it  in  the  training  of  the  young  people 
committed  to  their  charge ;  and  the  frivolous  many 
by  the  cool  indifference  with  which  they  watch  the 
natures  of  those  they  assume  to  love,  running  to  wan 
ton  waste. 

Yet  I  would  not  have  neglected  proper  gymnastics 
for  the  development  of  every  function  of  masculine 
perfection.  I  would  have  children  taught  ideal  meas 
ures,  accompanied  by  music  of  an  elevated  character. 
But  I  would  never  have  young  children  dancing  in 
the  intoxicating  glare  of~  gas-light,  furbelowed  and 
gewgawed,  till  they  can  scarcely  recognize  themselves ; 
and,  when  they  do,  with  so  self-conscious  an  air 
that  the  sweet  charm  of  childhood  is  completely  de 
stroyed;  and  you  see,  in  the  petite  shape,  the  warm 


152  BERENICE. 

coquetry  and  restless  vanity  of  maturer  years.  I 
would  do  away  among  children  the  passion,  which 
exists  so  fatally  among  women  of  the  present  age,  the 
desire  to  outvie  each  other  in  dress  and  in  beaux.  I 
would  not  have  them  vying  with  one  another  save 
in  diligence,  obedience,  and  child-like  simplicity.  There 
should  be  no  dress  worn  by  children,  in  these  public 
assemblies,  which  could  suggest  the  idea  of  social 
superiority.  Such  habits  force  rank  natures,  and 
make  bitter  jealousies. 

Cultivate  the  ideal  beauty  of  motion,  and  leave 
the  dances  of  the  voluptuary,  which  express  only  the 
softer  passions,  and  tend  to  immorality,  to  those  who 
have  passed  the  age  or  lost  the  disposition  for  im 
provement.  The  aliment  with  which  you  feed  the 
growing  passions  in  the  hearts  of  your  children,  deter 
mines  their  future  irrevocably. 

Many  parents  argue  that  the  earlier  children  aro 
accustomed  to  fashionable  amusements,  the  earlier  they 
lose  their  relish  for  them. 

Yes;  the  earlier  the  poison  is  instilled  into  the 
veins,  the  earlier  the  decay  will  commence,  the  ear 
lier  the  blood  becomes  vitiated  with  the  virus  of 


BERENICE.  153 

fashion  or  folly,  the  earlier  the  pure  nature  of  youth 
sinks  into  inanity. 

But  these  daughters  must  be  trained  to  marry 
well. 

Certainly  •  and  your  plan  is  excellent  to  make  them 
worthy  wives  for  spendthrifts  and  fools,  who  take  a 
wife  without  thought  for  the  future,  and  with  but  a 
faint  glimmering  of  their  present  needs. 

It  is  a  growing  evil ;  and  suffering  women  and 
their  fragile  progeny,  infected  with  disease  from  the 
cradle  to  an  early  grave,  are  the  mournful  witnesses 
that  point  us  to  the  awful  truth. 

0,  mothers !  let  this  voice  reach  you.  Train  your 
daughters  to  self-reliance,  and  not  to  feel  that  they 
are  to  marry  simply  because  everybody  does  marry. 
If  you  are  too  poor  to  support  them,  and  are  de 
pending  on  their  making  a  good  match  for  themselves, 
and  a  home  for  yourselves,  don't  trust  to  that.  There 
are  few  happy  marriages ;  there  can  be  but  few,  where 
interest  and  self-love  form  the  tie. 

Train  them,  from  earliest  youth,  to  lives  of  useful 
ness.  Let  them  have  their  hours  of  gladness,  cer 
tainly;  don't  abridge  their  pleasures,  but  teach  them 


154  BERENICE. 

to  live  alone,  if  need  be.  Better  that  than  be  some 
body's  sickly  wife.  Let  them  labor  for  love,  and 
live  true  lives.  So  shall  woman's  condition  be  best 
exalted. 

In  my  young  womanhood  I  had  a  vague  idea  that 
marriage  was  a  necessity,  particularly  for  a  homeless 
girl;  and  supposed  that  I  ought  to  feel  quite  grateful 
to  the  man  who  should  offer  to  make  me  his  wife, 
and  that  it  would  be  wisdom  to  calculate  between  two 
lovers,  and  choose  the  best.  I  cannot  declare  that 
this  was  ever  told  me,  explicitly ;  but  my  mind  was 
impressible,  and  that  was  the  idea  left  upon  it. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  had  any  particular  choice  be 
tween  the  two  who  asked  for  my  hand,  for  there 
\vere  two  actual  lovers  in  the  field.  The  one  I  thought 
I  liked  most  was  at  a  distance,  and  not  a  favorite  with 
my  aunt  j  the  other  I  saw  every  day,  under  the  most 
favorable  auspices,  and  he  was  a  favorite  with  my 
aunt. 

I  being  naturally  grateful  and  adhesive,  the  devo 
tion  of  the  present  love  won  me,  and  I,  at  last, 
returned  his  affection  with  all  my  heart ;  and  we  two 
strolled  on  together  in  the  way  many  were  treading. 


BERENICE.  155 

We  had  for  all  a  word  and  a  smile ;  but  we  two  were 
the  whole  world  to  each  other,  and  the  days  went  by 
burthened  only  with  joy. 

Yet,  at  length,  there  were  some  heavy  hours  for 
me ;  for,  with  this  new  phase  in  my  life,  there  came 
a  strange  and  far-seeing  prophetic  vision.  I  had  long 
reveries  when  I  looked  beyond  the  sunshine  of  the 
present,  and  saw  a  stormy  sky,  threatening  and  dark, 
and  a  fearful  avalanche  toppling  from  a  lofty  height,  and 
knew,  in  my  dream,  that  it  would  come  crushing  down, 
overwhelming  with  ruin  the  promise  of  my  future. 
There  were  strange  contradictions  at  work  within 
me  ;  loving  as  I  could  love,  yet  fearing  what  I  did 
fear.  When  they  brought  the  bridal-robe,  and  twined 
the  wreath  of  orange-buds,  a  freezing  shudder  crept 
through  my  frame  as  I  murmured  involuntarily,  "It 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  looking  on  my  burial- 
shroud." 

They  chid  me  for  my  wayward  mood,  and  the 
young  bridegroom's  eyes  met  mine  almost  in  anger 
as  he  whispered,  huskily,  "  You  wrong  me, —  wound 
me  with  these  visionary  speeches !  " 

For   his  sake  I  let  fall  the  veil  between   my  spirit 


156  BERENICE. 

and  the  shadows  that  brought  these  troubled  doubt- 
ings. 

Holy  words  were  spoken  in  the  presence  of  kindred 
and  friends.  Young  heads  were  bowed.  Bridesmaids 
and  groomsmen  rehearsed  their  own  hymeneals  with 
softly  fluttering  hearts.  I  was  a  strange  bride.  I 
scarcely  heard  the  vows  to  which,  with  icy  lips,  I  mur 
mured  faint  responses.  My  thoughts  fled  far  away, 
beyond  my  own  control.  A  face  gleamed  there  before 
me, —  a  face  like  Raphael's,  full  of  glorious  beauty. 
An  unbidden  guest  upon  my  wedding-morn,  I  met 
again  those  calm  magnetic  eyes,  and  my  soul  shiv 
ered  in  the  contact;  and  still  it  haunted  me,  —  his 
face,  for  whom  I  knew  no  name  save  that  of  "  my 
preserver." 

I  started  as  a  deep  "  Amen"  fell  on  my  ears.     The 

rite    was    ended,  and    I    was    Ralph     Grayson's   wife. 

.The  seal  of  benediction  from  high  authority  had  been 

set  upon    it.     We  were    linked   inseparably  till   death 

should  part  us. 

The  bride-cake  was  broken,  and  ruby  lips  just 
sipped  the  ruby  wine ;  and  merry  tongues  were  elo 
quent  with  soft  nothings. 


BERENICE.  157 

A  few  hours  more,  the  bridal  party  had  dispersed, 
and  sober  silence  reigned  within  the   home  where  we 
two  commenced  a  new  and  untried  life. 
14 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

FKOM  the  hour  I  became  a  wife,  every  thought  and 
emotion  of  my  life  was  given  to  my  husband  in  truth 
and  earnestness.  He  loved  me  to  the  full  extent  of 
his  capacity,  and,  in  the  plentifulness  of  that  I  lavished, 
I  did  not  stop  to  weigh  what  I  received. 

There  were  some  stormy  moments  when  unruly 
passions  would  overmaster  his  reason,  and  he  would 
speak  harsh  words, —  words  which  might  never  be  for 
gotten, —  and  utter  bitter  threats,  which  would  rankle 
in  a  young  wife's  heart,  in  spite  of  the  effort  to  stifle 
them.  But  the  storms  went  by.  Calm  serenity  re 
newed  its  heaven-born  power ;  but  I  saw,  too  plainly, 
I  had  built  my  hopes  of  happiness  upon  the  sands. 

However,  there  was  a  new  vista  opening  to  me, — 
an  endless  theme  of  hope  and  love.  Months  went 
by,  and  I  became  a  mother ;  and,  as  I  folded  those 
precious  little  innocents, —  my  own  twin  children, — 


BERENICE.  159 

to  my  bosom,  the  mother-love  came  gushing  in  an 
ebbless  tide  through  all  my  being.  I  felt  that  even 
life  would  be  a  slender  sacrifice,  so  it  brought  good  to 
them.  0,  what  delight  to  nourish  those  tiny  bud 
dings  from  the  warm  fountain  of  maternity ! 

My  babes !  my  children !  —  the  words  thrilled  through 
and  through  me,  till  the  music  stifled  in  my  heart 
strugglings  for  utterance;  and  those* two  tender  crea 
tures  were  given  to  me,  and  those  twin  souls  would 
be  my  charge  through  all  future  time,  and  on  to  eter 
nity. 

I  am  answerable  for  their  well-being  here,  and  to 
our  God  for  their  hereafter.  I  have  incurred  a  great 
but  blessed  -responsibility.  Father  of  mercies  !  aid  me 
in  its  fulfilment.  I  have  given  an  impulse  to  a  career 
of  which  I  know  nothing  beyond  the  immediate  pres 
ent.  Fearful  truth !  How  dare  I  make  wider  and 
broader  the  swelling  flood  that  shall  deepen  till  even 
the  mother's  love  shall  not  be  able  to  fathom  it? 

These  infant  forms,  now  pliant  and  docile  to  my 
slightest  wish,  in  a  few  years  will  cease  to  yield 
thus  easily  to  my  control;  but,  with  their  growing, 
sinewy  strength,  will  seek  to  buffet  for  themselves  the 


160  BERENICE. 

torrent  rush,  with  hope  to  dare,  and  will  to  conquer 
in  the  contest. 

0,  but  for  faith  the  soul  would  grasp  the  future 
with  feeble  hold  !  As  it  is,  we  cling  with  deathless 
energy  to  all  our  hopes. 

With  quickened  energies,  I  felt  the  earnest  nature 
of  my  new  duties.  My  babes  and  their  father  filled 
to  overflowing  the  cup  of  each  day's  draught  of  pleas 
ure.  It  was  most  dear  to  feel  myself  a  constant  need 
to  them ;  a  purpose  in  every  hour  and  act  to  benefit 
the  loved  ones.  I  regretted  no  toil,  though  sometimes 
fainting  with  the  weight  I  bore.  It  was  for  them.  I 
paused  not  to  see  to  my  own  footing,  so  they  were 
always  safe  before  me.  I  cared  nothing  for  the  thorns 
in  the  rough  thoroughfare,  until,  at  last,  one  keener 
than  the  rest  pierced  to  my  heart.  The  wound  bled 
inwardly,  and  the  curdling  weight  blocked  the  wheels 
of  life. 

It  is  a  most  grievous  thing  to  bare  to  the  world's 
cold  eyes  scenes  of  domestic  trouble,  discordant  jars, 
jealousies,  and  all  the  wretched  train  of  evils  which 
gradually  come  between  hearts  estranged.  There  were 
months  through  which  I  could  not  guess  why  my  hus- 


BERENICE.  161 

band  should  show  himself  so  morose  'and  unkind  to  me ; 
why  the  most  trifling  omission  of  duty  should  be  so 
severely  visited  on  my  head. 

I  charged  every  faculty  I  possessed  to  keep  me 
patient  through  all  unmerited  reproof,  and  hold  me 
free  from  anger  when  rebuked  too  severely.  And 
not  that  alone ;  blows  were  sometimes  my  portion ; 
but  he  was  raving  with  passion,  and  I  forgave  it 
him. 

It  pains  me  to  recall  that  period ;  the  days  with 
out  so  clear  and  beautiful,  and  all  within  turbulent, 
wild,  and  restless ;  the  days .  when  he  could  look 
coldly  on,  and  see  our  child  almost  dying  in  my 
arms,  and  never  speak  one  word  of  comfort.  Then 
he  would  leave  us  for  whole  days  to. struggle  through 
the  dreadful  hours  as  best  we  might.  And,  when  the 
last  hour  of  agony  seemed  drawing. near',  deaf  to  all  my 
beseechings,  he  turned  away  with  cruel  taunts  or 
worse  indifference. 

I  cannot  tell  half  the  despair  that  darkened  around 
our  heads  within  the  few  subsequent  weeks.  But,  at 
last,  the  proofs  of  his  infidelity  glared  openly  upon 
me,  unsought  by  me,  for  I  could  not  have  believed 


162  BERENICE. 

how  false  he  was ;  but  a  strange  chance  disclosed  the 
secret. 

One  Sabbath  evening  he  left  me  while  I  was  singing 
my  baby  to  sleep  in  its  cradle, —  for  I  had  again  be 
come  a  mother,  and  amidst  all  my  heavy- heartedness 
I  still  sang  lullabies.  I  looked  up  as  he  was  leaving 
the  room,  and  said,  "  Stay  with  me,  dear,  to-night; 
the  babe  will  soon  be  sleeping.  Then  I  will  walk  with 
you,  if  you  like." 

He  replied,  "I  am  going  down  stairs;"  and  left 
the  chamber. 

Soon  I  went  down  to  join  him;  but  he  was  not 
there.  It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  but  I  felt 
very  lonely.  So  I  went  back  to  my  chamber,  and 
flung  myself  on  the  bed  without  undressing.  And  I 
slept  for  hours.  When,  at  length,  I  awoke,  I  found 
my  husband  had  not  returned.  The  light  was  out, 
which  I  relighted,  and,  looking  at  my  watch,  was 
frightened  to  see  it  was  two  hours  past  midnight. 
I  felt  alarmed  for  my  husband's  safety,  for  I  knew 
he  must  be  in  town. 

I  went  down  to  the  street-door;  found  it  still  un 
locked;  so  I  was  sure  he  had  not  come  in.  Then  I 


BERENICE.  163 

wandered  up  and  down  the  house,  scarcely  knowing 
what  I  did.  I  looked  into  the  wardrobe.  His  vacant 
garments,  as  they  hung,  seemed  company  for  me.  I 
drew  my  hand  fondly  adown  them.  A  solid  substance 
in  one  of  the  coat-pockets  stopped  it. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is?"  said  I,  musingly;  and 
drew  forth  a  package  of  letters,  carelessly  put  together. 
As  I  held  them,  the  insufficient  tie  broke,  and  they 
were  scattered  at  my  feet.  I  gathered  them  up  again ; 
they  were  unsealed,  and  not  directed  to  my  husband. 
A  strange  fanciful  name  was  on  the  outside. 

I  trembled  so  that  I  could  not  stand,  for  the  writing 
seemed  familiar.  With  frantic  eagerness,  I  unfolded 
one.  I  was  not  mistaken.  It  was  the  hand-writing 
of  one  who  had  professed  for  me  the  warmest  friend 
ship  :  and  I,  poor  dupe,  had  all  along  believed  her  pro 
testations. 

Tender  appellatives,  an  appointment  to  meet  at 
the  usual  trysting-place,  regret  for  something  which 
had  prevented  the  keeping  of  a  promise,  and  a  warn 
ing  to  be  secret  as  the  grave,  for  somebody  is  on 
the  watch !  0,  what  a  fearful  tissue  of  duplicity 
and  art  was  here  unfolded  ! 


164  BERENICE. 

Only  initials  were  signed  to  these  precious,  villa- 
nous  letters.  Several,  of  the  same  tone,  were  there, 
which  I  merely  glanced  at.  But  one  was  among  them 
which  turned  my  heart  to  gall.  It  was  a  copy,  in  my 
husband's  own  hand,  in  answer  to  one  of  the  artful 
epistles  which  I  had  just  thrown  down  in  disgust. 

Unlawful  commerce !  It  was  all  there,  plain,  — 
too  plain. 

I  fell  on  my  face,  on  the  floor,  in  my  agony, 
and  prayed,  O,  such  wild,  vain  prayers  !  The  par 
oxysm  gradually  subsided.  While  there  had  been  a 
doubt  to  hang  a  hope  upon,  I  was  comparatively 
happy.  But  this  !  0,  this  dreadful  certainty !  And 
then  I  thought,  he  must  not  be  lost  for  this.  No, 
no !  I  must  win  him  back !  He  cannot  be  all 
evil.  I  will  hold  him  in  my  strong  arms.  He 
shall  not  so  peril  his  soul. 

And  there  I  sat,  unconscious  how  the  moments 
sped.  It  was  broad  daylight  when  he  came.  I  heard 
his  step  at  last ;  the  step  that  had  always  set  my 
heart  bounding  when  it  came.  But  now  it  had  no 
power  to  stir  me,  for  I  was  clammy  cold,  and 
deathly  still. 


BERENICE.  -  165 


He  came  up  the  stairs,  entered  the  chamber,  and 
beheld  me  where  I  sat,  with  the  signs  of  his  per 
fidy  lying  beside  me.  The  flickering  lamp  cast  a 
sickly  glare  in  the  room.  I  looked  up  in  his  face, 
but  could  not  speak.  My  tongue  felt  as  if  turned 
to  dust,  —  my  throat  its  sepulchre. 

He  spoke  hurriedly.  "Have  you  been  up  all 
night  ?  I  always  tell  you  not  to  sit  up  for  me. 
I  was  detained  on  a  business  matter  until  too  late 
to  come  home,  and  I  took  a  bed  at  the  hotel.'' 

!I  found  a  voice,  for  I  thought  perhaps  it  was 
so.  I  simply  said, 

"  I   thought   it  very  strange   that   you   were   away 

•  for   the   whole   night.     I   have   been   alarmed.      Nay, 
more ;    I   have   lost  all  faith,   if  what  I  see   is  true. 

•  These   letters!'' 

"-Those  foolish  letters,  Berenice?  Did  they  make 
you  doubt  me?  They  are  none  of  mine.  I  found 
them  in  the  counting-room.  They  belong  to  some 
of  the  boys." 

"Hush!"  said  I,  laying  my  hand  over  his  lips. 
"Do  not  add  falsehood  to  the  other  crime.  Your 
own  hand  is  against  you  !  But  for  that,  perhaps,  the 


166  BERENICE. 

subterfuge  had  served  you !  And,  worse  than  all, 
0  Ralph,  that  you  could  indulge  in  such  a  wanton 
game  the  very  day  our  darling  boy  was  near  the 
gates  of  death ! "  And  with  forced  calmness  I 
pointed  to  the  fatal  date. 

He  sank  upon  a  chair,  and  dropped  his  head  upon 
his  breast.  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  suffer ;  I 
knelt  at  his  feet,  and  besought  him,  for  his  children's 
sake  and  all  our  sakes,  to  return  to  us,  and  love  his 
home  again.  He  promised  then,  and  took  the  mighty 
name  of  God  upon  his  lips  to  witness  it;  and  I  be 
lieved  it  would  be  kept. 

But,  alas !  his  vows  were  like  words  written  on 
the  sand,  of  which  the  sweeping  tide  leaves  not  a 
trace. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

MANY  a  weary  night  I  sat  to  watch  for  his 
return.  I  could  not  sleep  till  he  was  safe.  Neither 
angry  words  nor  cruel  blows  could  drive  me  from 
this  pitiful  solace.  I  knew  that  he  no  longer  loved 
me.  But  still  I  strove  to  keep  my  place,  an  unloved 
and  neglected  wife. 

"  Why,"  I  despairingly  asked,  "  why  am  I  con 
demned  to  this  fate?"  Alas,  the  answer  is  inevita 
ble,  and  my  over-burdened  spirit  sinks  under  the 
terrible  weight.  He  loves  another ! 

There  is  no  grief  in  life  like  unto  this  !  —  none 
under  heaven !  Death  might  sweep  each  tenderly 
loved  friend  into  his  loathsome  caves,  leaving  me 
desolate ;  but  he  could  inflict  no  pang  like  this ! 
False  friends  might  whisper  falser  tales  to  him,  to  my 
dishonor,  till  he  spurned  me,  or  taught  my  own 
sweet  babes  to  despise  their  mother ;  yet,  in  the 


168  BERENICE. 

consciousness  of  innocence,  I  could  find  comfort  for 
such  grief,  trusting  in  heavenly  justice  till  purer 
brightness  be  restored  to  that  which  was  but  tar 
nished  by  the  breath  of  malice. 

But  to  lose  my  husband  while  yet  he  lives !  — 
a  husband  but  in  name !  To  know  that  I  have  not 
deserved  the  loss  of  his  affection ! 

I  was  frantic  with  misery.  My  incoherent  ravings 
divulged  the  secret  burning  in  my  brain ;  and  those 
around  me  knew  it;  and  then,  I  found  it  was  no 
secret.  They  had  discovered  all  before.  Then  came 
long  days  of  silence.  A  gloom,  deeper  than  death's 
dark  pall,  fell  around.  He  left  me  with  indifference 
or  frowns,  and  came  back  with  mocking  songs  upon 
his  lips.  I  saw  the  utter  heartlessness  that  shame 
forbids  me  speak,  yet  sought,  in  every  way,  to  save 
him  from  destruction.  But  in  vain  ! 

I  could  not  bear  to  give  him  up.  With  all  his 
faults,  I  loved  him  still.  But  I  loved  my  chil 
dren  more.  I  long  debated  if  it  were  best  that 
we  should  part.  A  gleam  of  the  old  tenderness 
returned,  and  my  heart  said,  No ! 

But   present    fear    and    love   of   safety   conquered ; 


BERENICE.  169 

for  it  is  an  awful  tiling  to  be  the  sport  and  in 
the  power  of  one  destitute  of  mercy  or  reason  to 
guide  him.  We  had  no  roof  to  shelter  us,  and 
nothing  to  supply  our  daily  needs.  Poor  —  very  poor 
—  we  were  bankrupts  in  everything ;  and  so  there 
came  a  point  at  which  we  bade  adieu.  I  went 
forth  with  trembling  fear,  for  the  way  looked  dark 
and  lonely  to  me. 

And  thus  we  parted,  and  went  wandering  separate 
ways  through  life's  varied  scenes,  unloving,  compan- 
ionless. 

Through  much  tribulation  I  have  gained  wisdom, 
and  do  not  blame  now  where  once  I  should  have 
condemned.  Perhaps,  in  my  earnest  vigilance  on  some 
points,  I  left  a  loop-hole  for  duty  to  slip  through 
on  others,  and  am  but  reaping  the  reward  of  my 
shortsightedness. 

15 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

I  COULD  not  bear  to  linger  among  the  familiar  scenes 
where  my  sorrows  had  fallen  upon  me.  Even  the  kind 
ness  of  my  friends  was  burthensome  to  me;  and  my 
children,  —  though  their  happiness  was  dearer  to  me 
than  anything  in  life,  their  sweet  faces  and  gentle 
voices  pained  me.  I  could  not  take  them  with  me, 
exposing  them  to  the  inconveniences  which  I  might 
experience  before  I  could  give  them  a  comfortable  home. 
I  left  them  in  the  charge  of  friends,  with  whom  they 
would  receive  far  better  care  than  I  could  bestow  in 
my  unsettled  state.  My  heart  was  very  sore  at  parting 
with  them;  and,  then,  there  rose  within  my  sluggish 
veins  the  wish  for  something  that  I  could  not  name,  — 
a  hope,  perhaps,  which  aroused  me  from  my  apathy. 
Then  I  said, 

"  I  will  throw  off  this  dead  and  useless  past, 
As  a  strong  runner,  straining  for  his  life, 


BERENICE.  171 

Unclasps  a  mantle  to  the  hungry  winds. 
A  mighty  purpose  rises,  large  and  slow, 
From  out  the  fluctuations  of  my  soul  ; 
As,  ghostlike,  from  the  dim  and  trembling  sea 
Starts  the  completed  moon." 

I  left  all  that  I  loved,  and,  in  the  heart  of  a  distant 
city,  I  sought  labor  to  supply  my  daily  wants.  The 
needle  seemed  the  only  thing  to  be  thought  of,  at  the 
moment,  and  I  gladly  availed  myself  of  its  humble 
instrumentality.  I  believe  that  immediate  necessity  for 
active  labor,  at  this  time,  was  my  only  security  against 
madness. 

I  sought  and  found  lodgings  in  a  retired  and  humble 
quarter  of  the  metropolitan  city.  Something  must  be 
done  at  once  for  a  livelihood;  and  I  rallied  forth  to 
find  that  something. 

The  first  three  days  my  efforts  were  unsuccessful. 
Terrible  days  they  were !  The  rain  was  incessantly  fall 
ing;  the  winds  were  chilling  and  cold,  and  my  com 
fortless  and  desolate  apartment  —  seven  by  eight,  up 
four  flights  of  stairs  —  was  all,  and  almost  more  than 
I  dared  venture  to  afford. 

I  wandered  about  in  the  drenching  rains,  and  waded 
through  the  mud  and  filth  of  the  reeking  streets,  till  my 


172  BERENICE. 

senses  were  all  sick.  But  the  fourth  day  the  sun 
shone,  and  I  had  hopes  that  it  might  bring  me  what 
I  sought. 

And  so  it  did ;  from  one  of  the  great  "slop  sewing" 

establishments,  in  T street,  I  found  my  prayer  for 

work  answered  in  the  shape  of  four  packages  of  shirts, 
six  in  a  package,  for  which  I  should  receive  twenty- 
five  cents  apiece  for  making.  So  I  hurried  back  with 
my  bundles  up  to  my  little  room,  and  commenced  the 
business  with  spirit. 

I  tasked  myself  to  finish  one  of  the  garments  before 
I  slept.  The  day  was  nearly  spent,  and  the  next 
day  I  meant  to  make  two  from  morning  to  night. 
There  was  nothing  to  interrupt  me  but  my  sad  thoughts; 
and,  now  and  then,  a  stray  tear  would  drop  on  the 
flying  needle,  retarding  its  swiftness  for  a  moment. 
Such  delay  was  worse  than  useless,  and  I  murmured, 
"Peace,  be  still!"  and  thus  compelled  myself  to  toil 
on  in  tearless  resignation. 

The  use  of  the  needle  was  not  new  or  strange  to  me ; 
nor  was  close  application,  for  many  hours,  an  unusual 
matter.  Therefore,  I  easily  finished  what  I  had  to 
do  and  laid  me  down  to  sleep  on  my  narrow  pallet; 


BERENICE.  173 

and  there  for  a  while  forgot,  'mid  worlds  of  sleep  and 
gorgeous  dreams,  —  for  my  visions  of  the  night  were 
beautiful  and  grand,  —  forgot  my  poor  surroundings 
till  the  dawn  aroused  me  to  a  renewal  of  thought  and 
action. 

As  the  celestial  dawn  looked  forth,  a  bright  ray 
struggled  through  the  low  window  that  lighted  my  poor 
chamber,  and  one  large,  lingering  star  flashed  like  the 
eye  of  God  from  out  the  far  purple  ether.  I  felt  the 
gladness  of  the  Father's  love,  the  consolations  of  a 
hope,  an  inspiration,  that  mounted  like  the  skylark  in  a 
flood  of  joyous  song,  bearing  my  spirit  out  above  and 
beyond  the  time-stained  and  cheerless  dormitory  that 
confined  me  within  its  narrow  walls.  I  did  not  care 
for  the  trials  of  yesterday,  nor  for  the  trials  of  to-day. 
I  dreamed  of  a  future,  and  blessed  my  Maker  for 
light,  for  labor,  and  for  solitude. 

Quickly  I  put  in  order  the  scanty  furniture  of  the 
chamber,  and  then,  arming  myself  with  needle,  thimble, 
and  scissors,  commenced  the  war  between  time  and 
stitches.  Which  will  win? 

Vigorously  I  plied  my  task  all  through  the  flying 
hours,  barely  delaying  long  enough  to  eat  the  simple 
15* 


174  BERENICE. 

meals  which  my  landlady,  Mrs.  Trevor,  brought  to 
me;  they  were  palatable,  but  prepared  with  extreme 
economy.  That  day  I  finished  all  I  had  intended  ;  but 
felt,  as  I  composed  my  throbbing  head  and  aching  side 
to  rest,  that  I  could  not  do  such  a  task  every  day. 

There  was  no  world  for  me,  outside  the  tenement  in 
which  I  dwelt,  in  all  the  wide  vast  city ;  —  no  world  I 
dared  hope  would  soon  be  mine,  for  I  could  not  bring 
my  children  to  share  my  scrimped  means  and  pitiful 
income ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  promise  of  better 
days.  So  I  toiled  on,  preaching  to  my  soul  u  patience." 

I  said,  there  was  no  world  outside.  But  there  were 
many  beings  within  the  four  walls  which  I  called  home, 
and  that  was  world  enough  to  teach  me  some  new  and 
startling  facts  in  life's  great  lessons. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

MRS.  TREVOR  held  a  lease  of  the  first,  third  and 
fourth  floors,  filling  her  rooms  with  boarders  or  lodg 
ers,  as  seemed  most  expedient.  She  was  a  widow, 
with  an  only  son  and  daughter.  Her  husband  had 
been  a  respectable  lawyer,  but  died  poor.  His  widow 
adopted  the  common  course  of  securing  a  home  for 
herself  and  children  by  keeping  a  cheap  boarding- 
house.  And  what  a  prolific  source  of  revenue  it  proves  ! 
How  so  many  people  contrive  to  live,  thrive  and 
make  a  show  on  nothing,  has  always  appeared  to  my 
unpractical  mind  one  of  the  great  marvels  of  human 
effort. 

Mrs.  Trevor  had  proved  herself  an  excellent  man 
ager.  She  had  brought  her  daughter  forward. 
Thanks  to  the  excellent  schools,  of  which  all  may  avail 
themselves,  she  had  acquired  a  passable  education, 
and,  with  the  aid  of  hired  pianos  and  cheap  music- 


176  BERENICE. 

masters,  had  cultivated  an  original  taste  for  music 
into  a  rather  pleasing  accomplishment. 

Isadore  was  pretty,  vain,  heartless  and  a  coquette. 
But  she  could  be  trusted,  for  her  self-love  was  strong 
enough  to  carry  her,  unharmed,  through  countless 
flirtations. 

But  Edgar,  the  son  and  brother,  was  one  of  the 
noblest  and  best  hearted  beings  that  I  ever  knew. 
Still,  he  was  a  source  of  grief  and  disquiet  to  his 
mother.  Edgar  was  a  universal  genius ;  susceptible, 
irritable,  and  totally  unfitted  to  cope  with  the  rougher 
natures  by  which  he  was  surrounded ;  and,  like  a 
spoiled  child  of  genius,  always  in  want  because  he 
would  not  give  his  attention  to  one  thing  for  a  suffi 
cient  length  of  time  to  make  it  lucrative.  With  fine 
perceptions  of  art,  without  the  means  of  perfecting 
himself  in  any  branch  which  might  become  a  source 
of  revenue;  with  powerfully  inventive  faculties,  his 
half-created  ideals,  which  time  and  outlay  might  have 
matured  into  something  really  serviceable  for  human 
uses,  only  served  to  lumber  his  mother's  little  rooms. 

In  fact,  when  I  first  knew  him,  his  life  seemed 
useless,  if  not  aimless,  —  not  for  want  of  talent,  not 


BERENICE.  177 

• 

for  want  of -a  lofty  ambition.  Others  said  he  lacked 
perseverance  and  application ;  but  I  discovered,  on  ac 
quaintance,  that  judicious  encouragement  and  efficient 
aid  might  develop  faculties  which,  in  the  end,  would 
bless  the  world  and  their  possessor. 

His  boyish  devotion  to  myself  was  the  theme  of 
many  a  sly  jest  and  meaning  smile  among  the  dif 
ferent  members  of  his  mother's  family.  But  that 
could  not  affect  him ;  and,  for  me,  I  never  knew  it 
until  the  jest  had  passed. 

He  was  twenty- three  years  of  age,  but  no  one 
would  have  supposed  him  more  than  eighteen ;  very 
slight,  and  not  tall,  with  a  style  of  beauty  rather 
that  of  a  delicate  woman  than  like  a  young  man, — 
an  expression  of  face  altogether  angelic.  Golden- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  fair-browed,  gifted  friend  of  mine ! 
where  art  thou  wandering  now?  With  thy  pure, 
earnest  nature  and  high  hopes,  hast  thou  found  a 
theatre  at  last  worthy  of  thy  ambition,  —  sufficient  for 
thy  noble  aspirations  ?  I  will  not  doubt  it ;  for  spirits 
like  thine  must  struggle  to  the  light. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

A  FOREIGN  family  occupied  the  second  floor.  A 
small  back  room  was  rented  by  a  young  woman,  of 
whom  no  one  in  the  house  seemed  to  know  anything. 
She  rather  avoided  the  society  of  her  neighbors ;  but 
she  appeared  to  be  forlorn  and  suffering.  That  was 
enough  to  make  me  tacitly  claim  sisterhood  with  her. 

I  occasionally  met  her  on  the  stairs,  in  company 
with  a  very  lovely  little  girl,  about  five  years  old. 
Mrs.  Trevor  said  the  child  was  her  own ;  but,  from 
her  extreme  youthfulness  of  appearance,  I  could 
scarcely  credit  the  relationship.  I  several  times  at 
tempted  to  attract  the  little  one's  attention;  but, 
as  she  did  not  seem  to  be  pleased  with  my  over 
tures,  I  finally  gave  up  the  endeavor. 

In  the  hive  of  my  adoption,  where  all  were  busy, 
I  felt  no  inclination  to  stay  my  hand  from  what 
soever  it  found  good  or  serviceable  to  do.  One 


BERENICE.  179 

evening,  as  I  was  carrying  a  package  of  finished 
garments  to  the  establishment  that  supplied  me,  I 
was  obliged  to  wait  a  few  moments  at  the  desk  for 
a  new  supply.  A  woman  stood  just  before  me,  wait 
ing  like  myself. 

"What   name?"    said   the   clerk. 

"Ruth  Nelby,"  replied  a  low,  sweet,  tremulous  voice. 

The  name  was  registered.  She  turned.  It  was  the 
second-floor  back-room  lodger !  We  stood  face  to 
face,  and  I  could  not  help  speaking. 

"  Our   paths   intersect,"    said  I. 

"Yes.     Do   you   return   immediately?"   she  asked. 

"As  soon  as  I  get  my  work,"  I  replied.  "Will 
you  wait?" 

She  bowed  assent,  and  drew  aside  to  wait  for  me. 

In  a  few  moments  I  joined  her,  and  we  walked  home 
together. 

"You  are  a  quick  walker,"  said  I,  as  we  entered 
the  street  in  which  our  house  stood. 

"I  always  feel  in  such  haste,"  she  replied,  "for  I 
am  obliged  to  leave  my  child  locked  in  my  chamber, 
and  the  fear  of  something  befalling  her  while  I  am 
away  almost  gives  me  wings." 

s 


180  BERENICE. 

"Well,"  said  I;  "you  need  do  that  no  longer;  for 
I  shall  be  glad  and  happy  to  take  charge  of  her 
whenever  you  must  leave  her." 

She  thanked  me  with  the  utmost  sweetness,  and  said, 

"My  little  silent  girl  is  not  much  trouble.  Poor 
cherub !  she  is  unconscious  of  her  own  misfortune.'' 

"  To  what  do  you  refer  ?  I  have  seen  so  little 
of  her  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  you." 

"Have  you  not  discovered  that  my  little  one  is 
deaf  and  dumb  ?  —  but,  0  !  a  thousand  times  more 
precious  to  me  than  the  most  perfect  child  that  fond 
est  mother  ever  pillowed  with  pride  upon  her  heart." 

"  She  is  a  sweet  little  thing,  and  has  a  face  full 
of  intelligence,"  I  replied;  "and  for  the  heavy  grief 
of  her  misfortune  the  mother's  wisdom  will  find  a 
palliative.  Her  singular  beauty  will  be  less  a  source 
of  danger  to  her,  and  you  may  be  almost  sure  your 
darling  will  never  go  out  into  the  world,  to  form 
those  ties  which  would,  in  a  measure,  deprive  you 
of  her  love  and  devotion.  Even  in  our  severest  afflic 
tions  there  is  some  comfort,  and  the  Hand  that  chas 
tens  can  also  heal." 

"  0,  bless  you  for  your  kind,  comforting   words ! " 


BERENICE.  181 

she  said.  "  Soon,  very  soon,  I  will  tell  you  what, 
and  why,  I  fear  for  her.  Good-night!"  —  and  with 
winged  feet  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  her  room. 

I  stopped  to  say  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Trevor; 
and,  while  I  was  speaking,  a  sound  fell  on  our  ears, 
startling  and  strange.  A  woman's  shriek  rang  through 
the  building,  like  the  knell  of  departing  hope.  It 
came  from  above,  and  we  all  hurried  out  to  learn 
the  cause.  Ruth  Nelby  tottered  down,  and  fell  sense 
less  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  It  was  evident  some 
thing  terrible  had  overtaken  her.  I  thought  of  the 
child;  and,  leaving  her  to  the  care  of  those  about 
her,  I  hurried  up  to  discover,  if  possible,  some  clue 
to  her  wretched  state.  The  door  of  her  room  stood 
open.  It  was  empty,  —  the  child  was  not  there. 

They  brought  her  up,  still  unconscious,  and  laid 
her  on  her  bed.  Few  questions  were  asked.  There 
was  no  one  to  answer;  and  we  could  only  wonder 
what  had  become  of  the  little  one.  The  mother  told 
me  she  had  left  her  locked  in  her  room.  The  key 
was  in  the  door,  and  the  poor  woman  lay  there,  on 
her  bed,  convulsed  and  insensible. 

After  a  little  while,  by  the  aid  of  restoratives,  she 
16 


182  BERENICE. 

came  out  of  her  spasm,  and  grew  calm.  Presently 
she  sat  up,  without  assistance,  and  her  quivering 
lips  framed  a  few  words ;  but  they  told  that  she 
knew  and  comprehended  the  fulness  of  her  misery. 

"  They  have  stolen  my  child ;  and  there  can  be 
no  more  comfort  for  me  this  side  of  the  grave." 

"Who   has   done   this   thing?"    I   asked. 

"  One  to  whom  the  law  would  give  the  right 
of  possessing  her,"  she  replied.  "Her  father." 

"  Why,  then,  did   he   take  her  by  stealth  ?  " 

"Perhaps  to  avoid  a  trial.  Perhaps  he  feared, 
if  the  case  were  brought  into  a  court  of  justice,  in 
consideration  of  her  helpless  condition,  she  might  be 
given  to  me,  at  least,  through  her  more  tender  years. 
But,  as  he  has  her  in  his  possession,  he  will  make 
his  story  good  if  I  contest  the  point,  and  keep  her 
in  spite  of  me ;  and,  more  than  all,"  and  her  voice 
faltered  as  she  said  it,  "  he  hates  the  mother,  and 
will  do  anything  to  rob  me  of  my  peace,  insti 
gated  as  he  is  by  one  that  rules  the  home  that  was 
once  chastely  mine.  Because  I  chose  poverty,  labor, 
beggary,  starvation,  rather  than  live  a  willing  partner 
in  crime,  they  seek  to  torture  me.  They  know 


BERENICE.  183 

well  how  to  wring  my  heart.  For  one  whole  year 
I  have  escaped  successfully  their  snares,  and  kept 
my  child  safely  hidden,  in  spite  of  their  search  ; 
never  trusting  to  one  of  my  former  friends,  fearing 
even  friendship  might  prove  false;  never  leaving  her 
for  one  moment,  except  to  get  supplies  of  work, 
which  has  barely  sufficed  to  keep  her  in  bread ;  and 
then,  locked  secretly  in  my  chamber,  I  thought  her 
safe.  Safe  !  but,  0,  there  is  no  safety  for  the  poor 
and  unfortunate !  Their  holiest  impulses  are  mis 
construed  ;  their  most  sacred  rights  are  torn  from 
their  bleeding  hearts,  and  all  their  strong  affections 
trampled  beneath  the  foot  of  power,  of  baseness,  of 
perfidy.  They  have  hunted  me  down  at  last,  — 
down  to  my  destruction ! 

"  0,  Father  in  heaven !  let  me  not  forget  thou 
art  a  God  of  mercy  and  of  justice ;  for,  in  the 
bitterness  of  my  anguish,  I  had  well-nigh  forgotten 
thee !  " 

Words  were  worse  than  useless  as  medicine  to 
such  woe ;  and  we  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  poor 
woman,  with  dew-distilling  pity  in  our  eyes. 

One  by  one,  the  sympathizing  party  went  out,  till 


184  BEKENICE. 

only  Edgar  Trevor  and  myself  were  left  to  watch, 
or,  if  we  might,  comfort  the  fair  mourner. 

Still  she  sat  crouching,  bowed  together  in  motion 
less,  tearless  grief.  What  could  we  do  or  say  ?  I 
looked  imploringly  at  Edgar,  hoping  he  might  sug 
gest  some  thought  which  would  rouse  her  from  that 
fearful  apathy. 

"  You  will  seek  redress  from  the  law  for  this 
wrong,  Mrs.  Nelby,  will  you  not  ?  I  am  sure  you 
will  find  it.  Command  my  services,  dear  madam, 
to  any  extent.  If  I  have  not  the  power  to  serve 
you  individually,  I  have  friends  among  the  lawyers 
who  are  eminent  in  their  profession.  You  must 
allow  the  case  to  be  brought  to  trial." 

"I  fear  it  will  be  useless,"  she  replied,  "  to 
trouble  any  one  with  the  affair.  Mr.  Nelby's  wealth 
and  business  position  will  outweigh  all  that  may  be 
advanced  in  niy  favor.  And,  after  the  step  he  has 
taken  to-night,  I  feel  so  convinced  of  his  determi 
nation  to  ruin  me,  soul  and  body,  and  drive  me  to 
despair,  that  I  have  no  hope  of  any  effort  succeed 
ing  to  restore  to  me  my  child. 

"  0  !  my  lost  darling,  must  I  give  you  up?     How 


BERENICE.  185 

dreary  life  looks  without  your  smile !  When  you 
were  with  me.  even  this  poor  chamber  was  bright 
as  a  bower  of  paradise.  But  now,  how  dark, — 
dark  and  cheerless  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Nelby  !  " 

"0,  call  me  Ruth,"  said  she,  "for  I  am  Ruth, 
—  they  named  me  well,  —  misery  and  sorrow!" 

"  Well,  dear  Ruth,  lie  down  a  little,  and  try  to 
compose  yourself  as  much  as  possible.  Where  does 
Mr.  Nelby  live?" 

"A   great   way  up   town,   in   street." 

"  Do  you  think  he  has  taken  the  child  to  his 
own  house?" 

She  thought  a  moment  before  answering,  and  then 
said,  "I  think  he  has.  I  think  he  would  not  trust 
her  elsewhere." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "can  you  not  claim  the  privi 
lege  of  seeing  her  every  day,  until  the  law  decides 
to  which  she  shall  be  given  ?  He  surely  could  not 
refuse  you  that." 

"  You  do  not  know  him,"  she  replied.  "  He 
would  gloat  over  every  pang  he  made  me  suffer. 
My  pleadings  would  be  music  in  his  ears ;  and  she  — 
16* 


186  BERENICE. 

that  woman  —  would  encourage  him  with  malicious 
smiles,  or  drive  him  on  with  scornful  taunts. 

"I  dread  to  meet  them,  but  I  must,  to-morrow. 
I  will !  I  would  brave  everything  to  fold  my  child 
one  instant  to  my  heart,  and  bless  her  dim  and 
half-developed  soul  with  the  light  and  warmth  of  a 
mother's  love." 

"  Be  comforted,  Ruth !  There  is  a  prophetic  in 
stinct  within  my  heart'  which  tells  me  you  will 
possess  your  child  again,  all  your  own,  sooner  than 
you  think.  I  know  not  by  what  means ;  but  cer 
tain  am  I  it  will  be  accomplished." 

All  night  we  watched,  wakeful  and  constant  sharers 
in  our  sister's  sorrow.  And,  when  the  first  pale  ray 
of  the  dawn  saluted  us,  we  hailed  it  with  calm  and 
trustful  joy.  Mrs.  Trevor  came  in,  offering  to  do 
everything  to  make  Mrs.  Nelby  comfortable.  But 
all  the  world  could  not  do  that  until  she  had  found 
her  child.  She  could  not  rest,  and  went  out  alone, 
as  she  preferred,  in  the  early  day,  on  her  mission 
of  love.  God  speed  her  ! 

I  mounted  to  my  sky-lighted  room,  and,  plying 
the  shining  implement  of  labor,  found  plenty  of 


BERENICE. 


1ST 


food  for  thought,  and  enough  of  time  and  silence 
to  digest  the  matter. 

I  had  acquired  a  peculiar  faculty  of  forgetting 
my  own  existence,  and  becoming  absorbed  in  that  of 
another,  if  deeply  interested.  Here  was  a  subject 
appealing  to  my  strongest  sympathies.  I  tried  to 
compare  our  two  lives  —  Ruth  Nelby's  and  mine : 
both  young  •  both  wedded ;  both  alone ;  each,  seeming 
ly  by  her  own  act,  an  alien  from  her  husband's 
heart.  She  had  left  a  home  of  luxury  to  escape 
the  worst  indignity  a  husband  can  offer  to  a  wife 
while  she  still  shares  his  bed  and  board; — and  I  had 
fled  from  ruin,  brutality  and  shame;  and  here  we 
two  had  met,  buried  in  our  youth,  shut  out  from 
our  rightful  heritage,  condemned  to  solitude,  or  slan 
der,  and  no  delicate  mind  would  hesitate,  for  an 
instant,  which  to  choose ;  women  dependent  on  their 
own  exertions  and  the  caprices  of  the  foreman  of 
the  sewing  establishment,  liable  to  be  told,  any  day, 
there  was  no  more  work  for  them,  and  sent  hunt 
ing  up  and  down  the  busy  mart  pleading  for  labor, 
or  to  go  back  without  it  to  starve. 

If  woman   can  submit  to   the  insults  which  youth 


188  BERENICE. 

and  an  agreeable  person  sometimes  provoke,  from 
coarser  minded  n?en,  she  may  find  work  in  plenty, 
and  set  her  own  price  on  her  labor.  Otherwise, 
she  must  submit  to  be  scowled  on,  suspected,  tempted ; 
for  the  poor  seamstress  has  always  an  ideal  beyond 
her  position,  and  her  ardent  and  impressible  nature, 
wrought  on  by  circumstances,  is  subject  to  tempta 
tion,  and  not  often  crowned  with  the  strength  of 
divinity  to  resist,  as  was  He,  the  refuge  of  poor 
humanity,  "  Christ  tempted  in  the  wilderness." 

All  this  is  hers  to  combat,  to  live  down,  to  suffer 
through,  or  to  fall  under. 

There  were  points  of  startling  similarity  in  our 
histories;  but  I  soon  lost  my  own  identity  in  the 
force  of  indignation  aroused  in  contemplating  Ruth 
Nelby's  glowing  wrongs,  for  which  there  seemed  to 
be  no  immediate  redress. 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  when  Ruth  returned.  I 
saw  at  a  glance  she  had  been  unsuccessful  in  her 
attempt  to  see  her  child.  To  my  look  of  inquiry 
she  shook  her  head,  then  sunk  in  silence  on  a 
chair. 

"Did  you  not  find  them?"    I  inquired. 


BERENICE.  189 

"I  found  the  house  apparently  deserted;  and, 
after  ringing  some  time  at  the  door,  a  servant  made 
his  appearance  from  the  rear,  and  said  the  family 
had  left  town.  To  my  question,  'When  did  they 
leave?'  he  replied,  'Three  days  ago." 

"It  is  only  a  feint,"  said  I,  "to  delude  you 
into  a  belief  of  their  absence.  What  means  do 
you  think  were  employed  to  gain  admittance  to 
your  room,  when  you  had  the  key  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  I  think  they  entered  by  the  aid  of  a  false 
key ;  and  I  now  recollect  something  that  did  not 
give  me  a  moment's  thought  at  the  time  I  noticed 
it.  I  —  usually  so  full  of  apprehension  and  watch 
ful  of  danger  —  I  found  a  small  quantity  of  wax 
adhering  to  the  key-hole  of  that  door,  and  never 
dreamed  how  it  might  have  come  there." 

Mrs.  Trevor  said,  the  same  person  who  inquired 
for  Ruth,  and  was  admitted  the  evening  previous, 
called  once  a  few  days  before.  "  Probably  he 
watched  you  go  out;  the  first  time  sufficed  to  get  a 
perfect  impression  of  the  lock  ;  and  at  the  last,  a  false 
key,  doubtless,  was  the  means  by  which  he  got 
possession  of  the  child." 


190  BERENICE. 

Now  the  color  of  her  grief  assumed  a  new 
feature,  as  the  thought  of  her  child's  helplessness 
forced  itself  upon  her  mind. 

•"Who  will  minister  to  her  wants?  Who  can 
interpret  her  signs  ?  She  will  suffer  so  with  stran 
gers,  for  she  cannot  make  herself  intelligible  to  them, 
or  they  to  her;  and  she  has  known  no  other  care 
but  mine  since  she  was  born.  The  thought  of  all 
she  must  endure  adds  a  sharper  sting  to  this  sharp, 
hard  trial." 

Thus,  with  piteous  accent,  the  mother  still  be 
moaned  her  loss,  raising  sad  anticipations  to  increase 
her  pain ;  and,  as  it  were  a  part  of  the  beloved 
thing,  fondled  the  grief  that  grieved  her. 

I  was  bankrupt  in  consolation,  and  forbore  to  offer 
her  a  paltry  subterfuge. 

Poor  Ruth  Nelby  !  those  were  heavy  days  for  her. 
The  sewing  was  all  neglected.  She  had  lost  the 
spur  to  action.  She  spent  them  lingering  wistfully 
about  her  husband's  house  in  the  vague  hope  of 
catching  a  glimpse  of  "cherub,  "  as  she  always  called 
the  child,  and  the  nights  in  pacing  the  chamber,  to 
her  as  hollow  as  a  tomb. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

A  LETTER  was  left  for  Mrs.  Nelby  one  morning 
during  her  absence.  I  held  it  out  to  her  when  she 
came  in.  She  took  it,  glanced  at  the  superscription, 
and  her  face,  neck  and  hands  crimsoned  painfully  one 
moment;  the  next  receding  tide  of  life  left  her  as 
white  as  the  paper  which  she  held. 

"  It  is  his  hand,"  she  uttered  with  difficulty,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  contents,  which  she  devoured 
with  trembling  eagerness.  She  then  handed  the  let 
ter  to  me,  and  speaking  quite  calmly  said,  "Read 
for  yourself;  see  how  he  bargains  with  ine  for  my 
very  life !  "  The  letter  ran  as  follows  : 

40 

"  MRS.  NELBY:  Madam, — I  have  asserted  my 
prerogative  as  a  father,  and  have  taken  my  child,  your 
child,  or  our  child,  just  as  you  will.  My  affections 
are  vested  in  her.  as  well  as  yours.  You  have  kept 


192  BERENICE. 

her  hidden  from  me  for  one  whole  year ;  and  I  have 
taken  advantage  of  an  unguarded  moment  on  your 
part  to  appropriate  to  my  pleasure  what  is  my  own. 

"  I  am  well  aware  that  you  will  urge  your  claim 
as  paramount  to  mine.  Well,  I  yield  it  on  certain 
conditions.  Return  to  my  house  as  my  lawful  wife,  as 
is  your  bounden  duty,  and  submit  yourself  to  your 
husband's  authority,  as  the  law  inculcates.  Do  this, 
and  you  are  at  liberty  to  enjoy  the  society  of  your 
child. 

"  Your  affections  I  will  not  presume  to  control ; 
your  movements  I  must,  else  you  will  see  her  no 
more,  as  I  shall  obtain  legal  custody  of  her  person, 
and  you,  madam,  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  your 
obstinacy. 

"  According  as  this  is  answered  I  remain  yours,  or 
otherwise.  «  S.  G.  NELBY." 

" Decide  for  me,"  she  murmured;  and  her  head 
dropped  on  my  shoulder,  like  the  lily  broken  from  its 
stem. 

"What  would  you  do.  Ruth?"  I  asked. 

"For   the   child's   sake  I  could   do   that,"    she   re- 


BERENICE.  193 

plied,  pointing  to  the  letter,  which  I  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  trampling  under  foot. 

"  He  dare  not,  he  cannot  do  what  he  says,  Ruth. 
He  is  only  trying  to  intimidate  you  from  pursuing 
a  legal  process  for  her  recovery.  He  knows  you  are 
weak,  now  ;  worn  almost  to  death  by  his  treatment. 
He  knows  your  heart  is  yearning  to  your  child,  and 
would  lead  you  over  a  precipice  to  your  destruction 
with  an  empty  promise  and  his  past  baseness  as  your 
only  guarantee  for  future  behavior.  You  would  wrong 
yourself,  and  wrong  your  child,  to  accept  so  mean  a 
bounty,  proffered  in  such  a  guise.  Be  strong !  Suffer 
a  little  longer,  and  your  child  will  be  given  back  to 
you  without  your  yielding  to  these  most  insulting  and 
unworthy  conditions.  And  now  I  have  something 
pleasant  to  tell  you.  Edgar  and  I  have  not  been  idle 
all  these  days.  I  have  seen  your  '  cherub.'  ' 

"Where?  Quick!  tell  me  where !"  She  pressed 
her  heart  with  her  clasped  hand  to  still  its  panting. 

"  Very  early  this  morning  in  the  street  at  the  back 
of  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Nelby  lives. 

"Do  you  remember  Nettle?" 

"The  black  nurse?  yes.  Good  Nettle!  Is  she 
17 


194  BERENICE. 

with  Alice?  0,  I  am  easier  now.  I  shall  see  her, 
shall  I  not  ?  When,  0  tell  me  when !  0,  my  precious 
little  one  !  Let  me  go  now,  at  once  !  " 

"It  is  too  late  to-night.  Ruth;  but  in  the  morning 
you  shall  go.  I  have  made  an  agreement  with  Nettle, 
on  the  promise  that  no  attempt  should  be  made  to 
carry  the  child  away  from  her,  that  you  shall  see  her 
to-morrow,  and  every  day,  until  something  better  shall 
take  place  for  you  both  than  a  mere  flying  interview." 

I  felt  her  head  pressing  more  heavily  against  my 
shoulder.  I  lifted  it  up  to  look  upon  her  face ;  she 
had  fainted. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

EDGAR  TREVOR  was  busy  with  Mrs.  Nelby's  case  ; 
and,  now  that  she  could  feast  her  eyes  for  a  few 
moments  every  day  on  her  treasure,  and  her  heart- 
hunger  was  somewhat  appeased,  she  began  to  heed  our 
friendly  admonitions  with  reference  to  her  health,  and 
to  look  a  little  at  the  strength  of  the  claim  to  be 
advanced  at  the  next  session  of  the  Supreme  Court 
for  her  right  to  her  child. 

She  answered  her  husband's  letter  with  an  honest, 
unaffected  and  noble  spirit,  telling  him  frankly  her 
intention  of  seeking  redress  from  the  arm  of  the  law, 
and  bade  him  remember,  once  for  all,  "  Although 
you  are  the  father  of  my  child,  there  rolls  between 
us  an  insuperable  and  eternal  sea." 

She  became  more  composed  as  her  fate  seemed 
rounding  to  its  full;  and  we  two  sat,  day  after  day, 
silently,  sadly,  stitching  together. 


196  BERENICE. 

"  Stitch  !  stitch  !   stitch  ! 
In  poverty,   hunger,   and   dirt." 

Not  all  that,  for  ice  were  not  hungry  •  but  we 
were  top  poor  to  take  time  to  keep  tidy  always. 
Finally,  Ruth  Nelby  proposed  a  community  of  fire 
and  light,  as  the  evenings  were  lengthening,  as  well 
as  growing  cooler ;  and  we  found  it  a  good  idea  when 
put  in  practice.  It  proved  a  pleasant  and  profitable 
arrangement  to  all  parties.  We  were  more  cheerful 
and  more  comfortable. 

Edgar  Trevor  read  while  we  sewed,  and  Isadore 
flirted  in  the  next  room.  Mrs.  Trevor  dozed  over 
her  knitting,  in  a  stuffed  chair,  in  the  warmest  cor 
ner.  The  clock  counted  the  unoffending  minutes  as 
they  broke  with  an  expiring  sigh  on  the  wheels  of 
time;  the  fire  glowed  in  the  sooty  grate,  and  the  cat 
purred  composedly  on  the  hearth-rug,  a  perfect  type 
of  irresponsible  animality. 

Warmth,  and  light,  and  food,  and  social  converse, 
are  wondrous  barriers  against  the  remembrance  of 
sorrows.  Ruth  Nelby  lived  on  a  hope.  I  had  hardly 
that  to  sustain  me ;  but  I  could  not  afford  to  droop, 
but  bravely  steered  my  bark.  The  beacon-light  was 


BERENICE.  197 

gone ;   but  helm  and   compass  still  were   left  me   by 
which  to  steer  over  the  mountain- waves. 

Several  weeks  must  elapse  before  the  decision  of 
the  court  could  be  obtained  relative  to  the  disposal 
of  Kuth  Nelby's  child.  The  impulse  of  industry 
seemed  to  have  returned  to  her  with  full  force  since 
her  misfortune.  "For,"  said  she,  "I  shall  need  all, 
and  more  than  all  I  can  possibly  earn  to  carry  my 
plans  into  effect,  and  must  endeavor  to  provide  a 
more  comfortable  home  for  my  darling  when  she  re 
turns  to  me." 

Our  work  began  to  be  irregular  from  some  inex 
plicable  cause ;  and  that  threatened  serious  embarrass 
ment  to  both  of  us.  As  it  had  been,  the  pay  was  so. 
little  for  the  amount  of  work,  it  required  application 
and  the  most  rigid  economy  to  keep  out  of  debt. 

We  were  good  needle-women, —  too  good,  Mrs.  Tre 
vor  said,  for  the  kind  of  sewing  we  did, — and,  without 
saying  anything  to  us.  for  fear  of  failure,  she  under 
took  to  get  us  supplied  with  work,  that  should  bring 
a -better  income,  from  a  first-class  ready-made  linen 
establishment.  A  woman  was  at  its  head,  and  was 
very  particular  as  to  whom  she  employed,  and  preferred 
17* 


198  BERENICE. 

. 

that  the  work  would  be  done  under  her  immediate 
superintendence. 

Mrs.  Trevor  became  responsible  for  us,  however. 
An  agreement  was  made  tha,t  we  should  be  sup 
plied  with  order- work  at  an  advanced  price;  we 
were  to  go  for  it  and  return  it,  and  that  was  the 
only  recreation  in  the  open  air  we  dared  allow  our 
selves. 

Well  might  we  dream,  and  sigh  as  we  dream,  and 
chat  as  we  sighed,  of  the  days  of  yore,  when  the 
woods  and  fields  made  life  seem  one  long  holiday, 
with  the  blue  skies  bending  freely  over  us;  when 
laughter  welled  from  our  hearts  like  music;  when 
youth,  and  hope,  and  love,  lent  enchantment  to  the 
sternest  realities. 

"  Work,  work,  work, 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work,  work,  work, 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 


BERENICE.  199 

0,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal !  " 

• 

Ruth  still  adhered  to  her  plan  of  preparing  her 
meals  in  her  own  room.  She  took  very  little  time; 
and  I  often  thought  that  bitter  tears  had  moistened 
the  crust  which  penury  forced  her  to  relish. 

Many  a  day  Mrs.  Trevor  took  from  her  own  scanty 
table  a  warm  bit,  which  she  contrived  to  make  Ruth 
accept,  though  with  difficulty.  She  said  she  did  not 
care  for  warm  food,  or  meat,  or  tea. 

Poor  child !  may  the  cup  of  water  and  the  dry 
morsel  give  nourishment  to  thy  fainting  soul ! 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

NEARLY  three  months  had  slipped  away  "  since  we 
were  first  acquaint."  Ruth  saw  her  child  nearly  every 
day.  The  good-natured  Nettle  seemed  to  enter  into 
the  merits  of  the  case  with  hearty  earnestness.  She 
said,  "  Mr.  Nelby  tells  me  to  take  very  best  care 
of  little  Alice.  How  can  I  take  better  care  of  her 
than  let  the  poor  thing  see  her  mother  every  day  ? 
Child  pines  for  its  mother;  mother  pines  for  her 
child.  Old  Nettle  takes  child  out  to  the  fresh  air; 
meets  mistress,  and  she  kisses  her  baby  like  mad. 

"0,  go  'long!  Nettle  a'n't  a  brute;  nor  a'n't 
a  gwine  for  to  be  !  Mistress  Nelby  good  woman ! 
Mr.  Nelby  treats  me  well ;  pays  me  good  wages ; 
tells  me,  '  Mind  what  I  say,  Nettle.'  Yees,  sir. 
Didn't  say,  'Don't  let  Miss  Nelby  see  the  child!' 
Says  a  Don't  let  the  child  out  of  your  sight ! '  No, 
sir.  I  mind  one,  mind  t'  other :  good  friends  to  both, 


BERENICE.  201 

and  hurt  nobody.  Does  some  folks  ever  so  much 
good.  0,  go  'long  !  Nettle 's  all  right !  "  and  wound 
off  with  an  expressive  snap  of  her  black  fingers.  Thus 
she  quieted  her  easy  conscience. 

It  was  the  evening  before  the  day  which  should 
probably  decide  the  point  in  law  of  Nelby  versus 
Nelby.  Edgar  was  doing  his  best  to  make  the  time 
pass  agreeably  to  us.  "  And,  now,  Mrs.  Nelby,"  he 
remarked,  "I  have  something  here  that  will  interest 
you,  particularly  on  cherub's  account.  It  is  a  treatise 
on  the  education  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  in  Prussia  and 
Saxony.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you?" 

"0,  certainly!  I  shall  feel  interested,  although  it 
will  probably  never  benefit  my  child.  If  I  am  able 
to  bear  the  separation  (if  she  is  mine)  of  putting 
her  at  a  school  here,  I  shall  do  well." 

"Well,"  Edgar  replied,  "it  will  be  pleasant  to 
know  how  they  manage  such  matters  in  the  old  coun 
try,  at  all  events." 

Then  he  proceeded  to  read  the  interesting  account 
of  the  mode  by  which  deaf  mutes  are  taught  to 
speak  with  the  lips  and  tongue.  It  is  a  common  opin 
ion,  in  regard  to  this  unfortunate  class,  that  the  organs 


202  BERENICE. 

of  speech  as  well  as  those  of  hearing  are  defective. 
But  this  has  been  shown  to  be  an  error;  the  inca 
pacity  to  speak  resulting  only  from  the  incapacity  to 
hear.  By  a  series  of  simple  experiments  the  pupil  is 
made  conscious  of  the  fact  of  sounds ;  such,  for  in 
stance,  as  observing  the  effect  of  sudden  shocks  upon 
animals  and  men.  The  sounds  of  the  letters  are  next 
taught  by  making  the  pupil  imitate  the  exact  position 
and  motion  of  the  teacher's  lips,  tongue,  etc.  By 
patient  endeavor  the  combinations  of  vowels  and  con 
sonants  are  effected,  and  the  deaf  and  dumb  scholars 
are  brought  to  read  with  as  much  distinctness  of  artic 
ulation  and  appropriateness  of  emphasis  as  is  heard 
from  children  who  are  born  without  defect.  Indeed, 
it  becomes  absurd  to  speak  of  the  dumb ;  where  this 
philosophical  system  of  instruction  prevails,  there  can 
hardly  be  any  dumb  persons. 

As  the  account  was  finished  Ruth  sighed.  "  What 
a  benefaction  to  the  afflicted!  But  how  is  my  dear 
silent  daughter  ever  to  be  helped  by  it?" 

"  Perhaps  Providence  will  show  the  way,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER    XXIY. 

WE  were  startled  from  our  dreams  that  night  by 
the  clanging  of  the  fire-bells.  A  hundred  brazen 
tongues  flooded  all  the  air  with  the  tidings  of  danger. 

"A  blaze  of  red 

O'er  heaven  is  spread  ; 
Yet  day  has  not  dawned 
On   the  mountain's  head." 

Higher  and  still  higher  shot  the  flame,  thrust 
ing  a  sharp  mocking  tongue  into  the  very  face  of 
heaven. 

The  clatter  of  engines  was  heard  below,  mingling 
with  the  shouts  of  an  excited  multitude,  and  all  hearts 
were  beating  with  a  resolve  to  counteract  the  march 
of  the  common  foe,  and  many  a  bold,  brave-hearted 
one  perilled  his  life,  standing  at  the  very  jaws  of 
death,  in  an  effort  to  save  life  or  property  from  de 
struction. 


204  BERENICE. 

It  was  a  terrific  scene.  Several  lives  were  lost; 
men  who,  in  the  fulness  of  health  and  strength, 
watched  the  last  night's  sun  go  down,  never  more 
to  see  it  rise.  One  of  these  was  Ruth  Nelby's  hus 
band.  While  attempting  to  rescue  some  valuables 
from  the  burning  ruins  of  the  house  of  an  absent 
friend,  the  walls  fell.  He  was  heard  to  exclaim,  by 
a  companion  who  came  near  sharing  his  fate,  "My 
God!  I  am  burning  to  death!" 

They  were  the  last  words  he  ever  uttered.  After 
a  day's  search,  his  charred  and  blackened  remains 
were  exhumed  from  the  fearful  grave.  He  perished 
in  the  attempt  to  render  an  important  service  to  a 
friend  who  loved  him  like  a  brother,  and  who  mourned 
his  untimely  death  with  an  unfeigned  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Nelby  was  gently  and  cautiously  apprized 
of  the  tragical  event.  Its  effect  on  her  was  over 
whelming  ;  the  fire  of  her  natural  resentment  died 
out,  and  the  faults  of  her  dead  husband  were  for 
gotten. 

Her  husband's  brother,  resident  of  a  neighboring 
city,  was  immediately  sent  for  by  telegraph;  and,  by 
his  advice  and  that  of  her  counsel,  she  returned  to 


BERENICE. 


205 


her  husband's  house,  whither  I  gladly  accompanied 
her;  and,  in  a  subdued  and  chastened  spirit,  she  per 
formed  the  last  sacred  duties  to  the  dead,  —  recon 
ciled  by  the  consciousness  that  she  had  ever  paid 
him,  while  living,  all  duty  and  reverence,  save  that 
which  interfered  with  her  sense  of  moral  obligation 
or  her  maternal  instincts. 

Ruth  had  uttered  some  bitter  truths  of  him,  which 
had  been  forced  from  her  heart,  in  the  hour  of  her 
agony,  at  the  cruel  separation  from  her  child.  There 
could  be  no  more  dispute  now.  The  great  Judge 
of  all  had  settled  the  question ;  and  the  child  be 
longed  to  the  mother  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
contest.  There  was  no  appeal  from  the  decision  of 
that  tribunal. 

The  woman  who  had  been,  in  so  great  a  degree, 
the  cause  of  Ruth  Nelby's  trials,  seemed  withered 
to  death  by  the  awful  fate  that  had  overtaken  her 
master.  Incapable  of  thought  or  action,  the  stricken 
creature's  condition  appealed  most  earnestly  to  sym 
pathy. 

And  now  Mrs.  Nelby  showed  her  true  beauty  and 
the  womanliness  of  her  nature.  Jane  Foster  was 
18 


206  BEEENICE. 

tended  and  watched  over  with  real  solicitude,  not  by 
a  hired  nurse;  Ruth's  own  hand  smoothed  her  pil 
low,  and  performed  those  thousand  nameless  offices 
which  the  sick  require,  and  which  a  gentle  nature 
can  alone  recognize  as  needful.  Nettle  was  often 
in  the  chamber  where  the  sick  woman  lay.  One 
morning  she  remarked,  with  the  tears  on  her  black 
cheek,  "Mrs.  Nelby  is  an  angel,  for  sure,  if  ever 
there  was  one,  —  she  so  good  to  that  woman  that 
treat  her  so  bad.  Great  change  there  now.  Should  n't 
wonder  if  that  there  woman" — pointing  to  the  sick 
one  — "  learned  to  love  the  Lord,  and  live  a  good 
life  after  this.  She  can't  have  angels  round  her 
for  nothing,  nohow ; "  and  she  walked  off  with  a  sanc 
timonious  air,  which  left  no  doubt  that  she  reckoned 
herself  among  those  blessed  ministrants.  And  why 
might  she  not?  "Black  and  white  all  the  same  to 
God,"  was  one  of  her  favorite  truisms. 

That  morning,  the  sick  girl  had  told  us  a  strange 
dream,  or  vision,  through  which  she  had  passed  the 
last  night.  "I  thought,"  she  said,  "that  I  had  passed 
the  bounds  of  earth,  and  lay  stranded  on  the  shore 
of  eternity.  But  my  eyes  were  darkened  that  I  saw 


BERENICE. 


207 


no  light.  And  a  voice  came  to  me  through  the  dark 
ness,  which  said,  '  Daughter  of  Earth,  what  shall  be 
thy  doom?'  I  thought  in  my  heart,  but  uttered  no 
word. 

"Justice  already  has  spoken  the  fiat  of  doom  for 
me !  Whatever  it  be,  I  must  meet  it.  I  am  but 
the  breath  of  thy  nostrils.  Thou  art  God !  And 
then  I  beheld  a  silence  encircling  with  its  white 
flecks  my  naked  soul.  This  was  its  first  immortal 
raiment;  and  thus  it  lay  listening  to  the  decree, 
Tor  a  cycle  of  time  shalt  thou  wander  from  the 
immediate  presence  of  God,  and  thy  mission  shall  be 
to  reclaim  the  fallen  ! '  " 


Mr.  Nelby's  affairs  were  found  to  be  in  a  state 
of  extreme  complication.  When  the  estate  was  finally 
settled,  the  portion  coming  to  the  wife  and  child  was 
not  as  ample  as  might  have  been  expected;  still, 
with  careful  husbandry,  it  would  be  enough  for  all 
needs.  Ruth  JSTelby  insisted  on  a  comfortable  portion 
being  settled,  for  life,  on  the  unfortunate  girl,  who 
was  now  thrown  friendless  upon  the  world.  "  Enough 
to  keep  her  above  temptation,"  urged  the  noble  Ruth 


208  BERENICE. 

to  those  who  sought  to  dissuade  her  from  her  gen 
erous  resolve.  "  She  has  promised  me  solemnly  to 
quit  the  city,  to  retire  far  from  these  scenes,  and 
to  strive  prayerfully  to  retrieve  the  past.  I  will 
trust  her." 

She  did  trust  her ;  and  the  trust  was  not  mis 
placed.  That  woman  now  holds  an  honorable  posi 
tion  in  the  world  of  workers.  She  has  proved  her 
self  strong,  and  worthy  of  the  noble  confidence  placed 
in  her  by  the  trusting  Ruth.  Nettle's  prophecy  is 
fulfilled.  Jane  Foster  has  become  a  laborer  in  the 
Lord's  vineyard. 

Sneer  not,  fair  moralist,  at  this  change !  'T  is 
possible  —  for  Christ  hath  said  it  —  for  the  vilest 
to  be  forgiven.  Verily,  the  benevolence  of  redemp 
tion  is  good;  but,  0,  far  better  the  benevolence 
of  salvation !  Do  your  utmost,  then,  to  save  the 
young  from  falling.  Then  your  care  and  strength 
will  not  be  needed  to  redeem  them  from  a  fallen 
state. 

One  evening,  just  at  sunset,  Ruth  Nelby  had 
gathered  her  beautiful  silent  child  to  her  bosom,  pil 
lowing  its  fair  head  on  its  faithful  resting-place. 


BERENICE.  209 

and  soothing  it,  through  the  sense  of  touch,  till  it 
fell  asleep. 

"  Berenice,"  said  she,  for  thus  she  had  learned 
familiarly  to  address  me,  "  do  you  remember  the  ac 
count  of  the  German  school  for  mutes,  which  Edgar 
Trevor  read  to  us,  one  evening,  when  Alice  was 
away  from  me  ?  How  I  wished  then  that  I  pos 
sessed  the  means,  as  now  I  do,  to  take  her  there, 
and  have  her  thoroughly  educated." 

"Yes;  I  remember.  And  you  will  go ?  Well,  God 
go  with  you,  dear  Ruth ! " 

"I  have  thought  of  it  earnestly;  and  am  decided, 
in  my  own  mind,  to  go  immediately.  Will  you  go 
with  me,  dear  Berenice,  and  take  your  little  per 
fect  daughter?  Cherub  and  I  have  enough  and  to 
spare.  We  will  live  together,  and  share  alike,  in 
some  old  German  city,  and  read  legends,  and  dream 
dreams,  and  educate,  or  oversee  the  education  of 
our  daughters.  You  have  shared  our  sorrows; 
come,  now,  and  share  the  pleasantness  of  life  with 
us!" 

"It  would  be  very  sweet,  Ruth;  but  I  have  du 
ties  here  which  nothing  can  set  aside.  I  will  love 
18* 


210  BERENICE. 

you    ever;    but  I  cannot    leave    my  children  to   go 
with  you  across  the  Atlantic." 

In  a  month  more  Ruth  and  her  Alice,  with  Net 
tle  for  an  attendant,  set  sail,  to  reside,  for  an  indefi 
nite  length  of  time,  in  Germany,  and  I  returned  to 
my  humble  quarters  at  Mrs.  Trevor's. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Now,  while  I  toiled,  there  came  glimpses  of  half- 
forgotten  dreams,  once  very  dear  to  me.  As  I  awoke 
to  the  new  life,  thoughts  were  born,  and  my  lips 
gave  them  voice.  A  rapture  pervaded  my  being, 
weaving  airy  dances  through  my  brain. 

I  welcomed  my  ideal  children.  I  revelled  in  the 
fresh  delight.  And,  each  evening,  the  sewing  laid  aside, 
I  fed  and  trimmed  the  dim  lamp  burning  in  my  soul, 
till  it  threw  its  beams  over  the  desolate  wastes  encom 
passing  me,  and  pointed  a  way  to  a  better  path.  With 
timid  confidence  I  felt  that  what  I  had  written  per 
haps  might  find  me  new  friends,  and  lead  me  to  a  more 
congenial  path  in  life. 

Edgar  Trevor  said,  "  You  are  wasting  your  powers 
of  mind,  and  wearing  yourself  into  an  early  grave, 
by  such  intense  application  to  your  needle.  You  are 
capable  of  something  higher.  Why  not  turn  to  liter- 


212  BERENICE. 

ature?  I  think  you  might  do  something  in  that 
line." 

I  answered,  "  I  am  afraid  to  make  an  attempt,  which 
may  prove  a  failure." 

"  No  matter,"  he  replied;  "one  failure  is  not 
much.  I  have  made  a  dozen,  and  am  not  discour 
aged  yet." 

I  then  told  him  what  I  had  been  doing,  and  he  was 
delighted.  He  took  several  of  the  articles,  both  of 
prose  and  verse,  and  found  for  them  a  market,  and  an 
order  for  more. 

Edgar   said,  "  Perhaps   you   may   become   famous." 

I  replied  :  "  0,  fame  is  nothing  !  I  do  not  care 
for  that." 

"  But  you  must !  "  he  answered.  "  Let  those  who 
choose  to  call  fame  an  empty  bauble,  and  say  '  I  '11 
none  of  it ! '  do  so,  if  they  will ;  I  shall  not  follow 
their  example.  The  excitement  of  the  chase  is,  at 
least,  a  glad  delight  while  we  are  in  pursuit.  Sup 
pose  the  heart  does  break  in  the  race ;  still,  if,  flushed 
with  the  contest,  we  reach  the  goal,  it  is  not  empty 
then,  for  the  soul  has  won  its  honest  purpose, —  the 
purpose  of  all  struggle. 


BERENICE.  213 

"  Mankind  is  ever  seeking  fame  of  some  kind. 
The  cry  that  has  gone  out  into  the  world,  that  all 
is  vanity,  never  did  deter  one  bold  spirit  from  a 
great  or  a  hopeless  purpose.  Fame  may  indeed  be 
but  an  empty  thing  for  the  vain-glorious  aspi 
rant,  who  seeks  but  self-aggrandizement,  and  wins  it 
by  defaming  or  down- treading  the  -real  children  of 
genius,  who,  perhaps,  lack  the  physical  power  to 
contend  and  keep  up  with  the  sweeping  throng, 
pressing  on  for  the  prize,  and  so  perish  ignobly  by 
the  wayside.  And  often  the  same  strong-handed, 
broad-shouldered,  successful  men  stoop  to  strip  the 
weaker  of  their  proper  gems,  setting  them  in  their 
own  crowns." 

In  course  of  time  I  gained  some  little  reputation 
in  the  literary  world  of  the  city  of  my  adoption, 
through  the  success  of  several  magazine  articles,  for 
which  I  had  been  well  paid. 

Mrs.  Trevor  had  moved  into  a  larger  house,  in  a 
better  street,  and  our  social  position  generally  im 
proved;  for  she  had  befrilnded  me  in  my  hour  of 
trial,  and  I  would  not  leave  her  now. 

I,  too,  had  succeeded  in  making  such  arrangements 


214  BEBENICE. 

for  the  use  of  my  pen,  and  by  teaching,  as  might 
release  me  from  the  everlasting  needle  ;  such  as  enabled 
me  to  place  my  children  at  excellent  schools,  and  pro 
vide  in  every  way  for  their  comfort. 

It  was  a  satisfaction,  I  may  say  comparative  hap 
piness,  when  all  these  matters  were  finally  settled,  at 
least  for  one  year.  Not  permanently ;  but  one  year 
of  comfort  was  much  to  me.  I  had  entered  on  a  mode 
of  life  that  suited  me ;  and  all  the  activity,  hereto 
fore  smothered,  now  found  opportunity  for  outlet,  and, 
though  my  faculties  had  lain  so  long  in  a  seeming 
sluggishness,  they  were  now  fully  aroused,  and  I  bent 
to  my  tasks  with  every  impulse  fully  awake. 

The  teachings  from  the  great  book  of  God,  whose 
leaves  I  had  turned  with  my  childish  fingers,  and 
gazed  with  wondering  eyes  on  the  pictures  which  each 
illumined  page  disclosed,  yet  with  an  intuitive  com 
prehension  drinking  in  some  portion  of  their  sublime 
import,  yielded  now  their  fruit. 

The  gypsy  life  in  that  wild-wood  home,  where  the 
young  child  sat  beneath  the  moss-covered  hemlocks, 
and  the  hoary,  murmuring  pine  trees ;  the  lofty 
pines,  slender  and  towering,  their  proud  heads  nod- 


BERENICE.  215 

ding  to  the  questions  of  the  complaining  winds ;  and 
all  the  wild  dark  forest,  where  the  moose  and  the 
watchful  deer  found  shelter;  and,  near  by,  the  ocean, 
sublime  in  calm  or  in  storm ;  the  sun-gazing  eagle, 
and  the  flapping  of  his  slow,  majestic  wings; — every 
thing,  sight,  sound,  and  association,  of  those  early 
years,  after  the  ineffable  loss  of  a  mother's  protect 
ing  hand,  taught  me  to  shun  my  fellows,  and  fly  to 
nature  for  solace,  as  to  the  bosom  of  a  tenderer  friend 
ship  than  any  human  love,  as  yet,  had  made  me  feel. 

Dr.  Gaston,  my  childhood's  friend,  the  dark,  bold 
seeker  of  Nature's  mysteries,  had  talked  to  me  of 
things  beyond  my  years.  The  crucibles,  and  the  weird 
lore  translated  by  his  lips  from  those  black  characters 
and  massive  tomes,  the  ghostly  skeleton,  the  sickly 
perfume  from  the  strange  lamp,  and  the  wondrous 
light  it  gave,  all  came  back  hauntingly ;  and  with  them 
a  vision  of  the  dead, —  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  wor 
shipped  cousin.  What  a  world  of  vain  regret  was 
submerged  with  her  beneath  the  placid  waters  !  Poor 
girl !  carrying  her  sorrows  in  her  own  heart  to  her 
despairing  end ! 

And  then  my  wayward  girlhood ;    my  father's  dis- 


216  BERENICE. 

mal  death;  and  that  gay,  social  hand,  who  had  no 
notion  of  the  girl  of  sixteen  summers,  whose  south 
ern  blood  was  fettered  by  her  northern  birth, —  who 
bore  beneath  a  cold  exterior  the  wild,  impassioned 
impulses  of  woman.  One  whose  inattention  seemed 
so  marked,  was  yet  mirthfully  making  close  observa 
tions  upon  the  motives,  powers,  actions,  and  principles 
of  those  around  her,  carefully  summing  up,  although 
with  immature  judgment,  the  worth  of  each. 

I  loved  the  motion  and  the  music,  but  did  not  always 
love  my  partners  in  the  gay  quadrille.  "  Miss  Bur 
ton  ! "  Yes ;  I  remembered  her  with  love  and  grat 
itude.  She  had  enriched  my  mind  with  real  wealth. 
But  the  great,  unalterable  laws  of  nature  had  been 
at  work.  The  seed  must  lay  in  palpable  death  ere 
it  can  be  quickened  into  life.  I  had  had  much  to  con 
quer  in  many  ways ;  old  habits,  and  new  despairs,  and 
that  memory  of  him.  He  could  not  be  all  forgotten  in 
a  day,  a  month,  a  year, —  never  wholly  forgotten. 

In  dreams  I  wandered  often  in  the  past;  I  saw 
him  who  had  been  my  husband,  every  day;  each 
glance  of  his  reborn  in  the  faces  of  my  children. 
And  my  heart  almost  refused  them;  but,  with  a 


BERENICE.  217 

determined   effort,    I   put   by   the    torturing    thought. 
They  were  .my  own. 

Once,  as  I  went  unconsciously  along  through  the 
busy  thoroughfare,  I  felt  the  shadow  of  a  presence 
which  was  not  like  the  others  around.  It  neared, 
and  neared  me.  I  felt  the  step  almost  before  I 
heard  it.  It  was  his  /  —  my  husband's  !  He  passed 
me  so  close  that  his  breath  was  on  my  cheek;  and, 
like  the  hot  and  scorching  south  wind,  it  withered 
me  for  a  moment.  The  next,  I  was  like  one  shiver 
ing  and  bending  to  the  blasts  from  the  north,  so 
quick,  so  subtle,  were  the  various  influences  his  pres 
ence  threw  over  me.  A  poor  apple-woman  saved 
me  from  falling  at  the  street- corner,  who  arose,  offer 
ing  me  some  grapes,  the  only  thing  she  could,  as 
a  restorative,  and  sustained  me  in  her  thin,  with 
ered  arms,  until  the  tremor  passed;  and,  by  and 
by,  I  could  stagger  feebly  on,  between  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  human  tide  setting  each  way  so  fiercely. 
What  was  one  poor  shipwrecked  mariner  to  the 
throng  of  strong  swimmers?  I  could  not  cry;  for 
the  whelming  waters  choked  and  left  me  utterless. 
But,  on,  on,  surging  hither  and  thither  in  the  sordid 
19 


218  BERENICE. 

press,  on  to  the  house  I  called  home,  though,  on 
account  of  his  misdeeds,  it  was  so  little  like  a 
home.  There,  worker  in  that  little  nook,  be  still, 
and  hush  the  murmuring  voice  to  silence ! 

And  so  another  year  was  added  to  the  cycle  of 
ages.  A  moderate  degree  of  success  crowned  all  the 
toil  that  filled  the  brimming  hours.  Let  pass  the 
cup ;  yesterday,  the  hyssop ;  to-day,  the  nectar ;  to 
morrow,  we  guess  not  what ! 

But  let  it  pass ;  't  is  good  for  purifications,  for 
blessings,  and  for  hopes,  beyond  the  conscious  present. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

SUMMER  was  with  us  again;  blue-eyed  June, 
with  its  fulness  of  life  and  love,  the  bride  of  the 
year,  with  swelling  buds,  crowned  with  youthful 
beauty,  moving  gracefully  yet  timidly  forward  to  the 
ardent  maturity  of  July,  and  then  both  to  sleep  in 
the  fruitful  lap  of  August. 

I  had  engaged  to  pass  a  part  of  the  warm  weather 
with  some  dear  Quaker  friends,  the  Hurrays,  at  their 
pleasant  home  in  the  valley  of  the  Mohawk.  I  put 
away  the  city  cares  for  two  months,  left  my  P. 
P.  C.  at  the  doors  of  various  people,  and  did  not 
forget  the  kind  old  apple-woman  who  aided  me  in 
a  moment  of  suffering.  I  .stood  chatting  until  the 
passers-by  must  have  thought  I  was  haggling  for 
the  stand,  fruits  and  all.  She  had  seen  trouble ;  — 
who  has  not?  But  she  was  an  honest  soul,  and  I 
really  took  pleasure  in  listening  to  her  homely 


220  BERENICE. 

recitals  of  the  ways  and  means  by  which  she  held 
on  to  the  ravellings,  not  "  the  thread  of  life."  She 
said, 

"I'm  poor,  and  I've  always  ben  poor,  and  I 
s'pose  I  always  shall  be ;  but  it  conies  harder  now 
than  it  used  to.  I  'm  gittin  old ;  but  I  've  got 
two  grand-children,  —  one,  my  daughter's  child,  and 
she 's  dead ;  and  the  father's  followed  the  seas,  and 
he  's  lost.  She  's  pretty  as  a  pearl,  — so  pretty,  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  her.  'T  a' n't  safe. 
I  've  saved  enough  to  put  her  to  a  trade.  But  set- 
tin'  gives  her  an  ugly  pain  in  her  side.  And  t'other 
one's  a  girl,  too.  But  she's  helpless,  out  and  out, 
as  feeble  as  a  broken-winged  bird ;  with  a  hump  on 
her  back,  that  grows  every  day,  and  no  help  to  her 
growth,  neither,  poor  child  !  As  long  as  I  live  to 
take  care  on  'em,  it  '11  do.  But  when  I  'm  gone, 
what '11  become  on  'em  I  don't  know." 

"The   Father   of    the   fatherless,"  I   suggested. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  apple- woman,  as  she  furtively 
dusted  something  from  her  eye  with  the  cleverly 
patched  sleeve  of  her  gown.  "  I  know  all  that 
talk,  but  't  a1  n't  sartin.  Once,  a  great  long  time 


BERENICE. 


221 


ago,  I  thought   about    and    believed  in   sich    things ; 
but   I've   forgot    'em   all  now. 

"I  ha'n't  no  faith  in  nothin'.  Lina  has;  and  she 
teaches  t'  other  one ;  and  both  them  got  faith.  But 
I-ha'n't.  I'm  poor,  and  I've  always  ben  poor." 

"  By  what   name   do   they  call   you  ?  "  I   asked. 

"Becky  Tollman,"    said   she. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  Becky  Tollman,  you  say  your 
self  you  don't  know  what  they  will  do  when  you 
are  gone.  Is  it  not  good,  then,  that  you  are  spared 
to  them?  The  good  God  does  that." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  he  does,"  said  Becky.  "But  I 
don't  feel  as  though  that  was  doing  anything  great, 
consider  in'.  I  don't  s'pose  it's  right;  but  that's 
how  I  feel." 

"0,"  said  I,  "Becky,  you  must  have  faith.  You 
will  be  much  happier.  Faith  in  God  is  blessedness 
in  life.  That  faith  alone  can  lead  us  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

"I   must   go   now;    but  I  shall  come  and^see  you 
when   I   return.     And  here  is  a  nice,  large  umbrella, 
I   have   brought    to  shade   you   when   the   sun  creeps 
round   the   corner,  in   these   summer   afternoons." 
19* 


222  BERENICE. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  marm  !  I  could  n't  spare  the 
money  to  buy  one,  and  I  said  to  myself,  says  I, 
1  It  don't  last  long,  though  it  does  wilt  you  down. 
So,  Becky,  you  '11  get  through  it  somehow.'  But 
I  never  thought  as  anybody 'd  know  how  hot  it  is 
but  me,  and  the  others  like  me. 

"  And  you,  marm,  how  come  you  to  think  about 
a  poor  apple- woman?  It  almost  •  makes  me  b'leve 
what  you've  ben  saying  a' n't  all  talk." 

"Becky  Tollman,"  said  I,  "trust  my  farewell 
injunction.  Have  faith  in  God  !  His  goodness  is 
always  around  you." 

Becky  enthusiastically  kissed  the  handle  of  the  um 
brella,  by  way  of  farewell  salute,  as  I  turned  the 
corner. 

Good-by,  Becky  Tollman,  benighted  sister  on  the 
great  highway !  Years  three  score  and  ten  have 
whitened  your  head  with  sorrow,  dried  the  sap  of 
life  within  your  bones,  and  left  you  old  and  shak 
ing,  yet  hopeless  of  a  future,  ignorant  of  the  Father's 
love !  Verily,  the  germ  shall  come  to  fruition. 
Nothing  can  be  finally  lost.  Even  you  have  your 
mission  unto  men.  The  reeking  sweat  on  your 


BERENICE.  223 

wrinkled  brow  is  .borne  but  in  fulfilment  of  the 
great  law,  —  a  part  of  the  expiation  for  the  first 
human  error.  It  is  as  sure  as  life.  Your  poor  table, 
with  its  scanty  fruits,  and  slender  fund,  is  greater, 
more  precious  than  the  money- changers'  tables  on 
the  opulent  Rialto,  heaped  with  richest  merchandise. 
None  but  He,  the  All-Father,  can  know  the  devious 
windings  of  your  true  but  erring  heart.  He  is  your 
judge,  Becky  Tollman;  and  he  knows  that  your  every 
act  but  proves  the  very  faith  your  words  deny. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

IT.  was  on  a  hot  July  day.  I  stepped  into  the 
cars,  glad,  O,  how  glad !  to  escape  from  the  min 
gled  confusion  and  dust  of  the  city.  I  met  with  no 
possible  or  impossible  adventures  on  the  route.  The 
engine  did  the  usual  number  of  miles  within  the 
given  time  ;  there  were  no  delays,  and  that  is  say 
ing  a  great  deal.  The  usual  amount  of  doleful  me 
tallic  screams  went  up  among  the  hills,  scaring  the 
echoes  on  the  mountain  tops;  and  as  the  sunset 
splendor  fell,  mantling  wood  and  meadow  with  gold 
and  purple  tints,  we  stayed  our  course  at  the  depot 
in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  valley  which  was  my 
place  of  destination.  I  thought  the  clamor  of  the 
hissing  valves  no  bad  imitation  of  a  real  Indian 
powwow,  which  might  oft  before  have  startled  the 
slumbering  echoes  in  the  mighty  gorge,  and  convince 
the  most  valiant  warrior  of  the  Mohawk  tribe,  could 


BERENICE.  225 

he  look  far  again  through  the  misty  years,  that 
Yankee  invention  had  beaten  them,  even  in  their 
primitive  cries.  And  then  I  fell  into,  a  little  dream 
of  that  wandering  people,  who  chose  always  the  wild 
est  and  most  romantic  situations  for  their  transient 
encampments. 

I  fancied  the  dusky  faces  of  the  Mohawks  peering 
through  the  foliage ;  eyes  flashing  astonishment  at 
the  innovations  of  civilization;  the  Indian's  wigwam, 
with  its  curling  smoke  rising  to  heaven  like  incense ; 
then  the  murmuring  of  the  foaming  rapids,  dis 
turbed  only  by  the  picturesque  bark  canoe,  paddled 
skilfully  by  some  tawny  son  of  the  woods,  grace 
fully  poising  himself  preparatory  to  the  dangerous 
rush  over  the  boiling  eddies;  then  with  lazy  indiffer 
ence  he  floats  to  the  shore,  where  his  faithful  squaw 
comes  forth  to  meet  her  hunter  lord. 

But,  in  the  dying  out  of  the  Aborigines,  the  ro 
mance  of  our  beautiful  land  is  lost  forever.  Now, 
instead  of  the  smoke  from  the  branch-woven  hut, 
houses,  towers  and  spires  loom  in  the  distance  at 
every  eligible  stand-point.  Locks  and  canals;  the 
tramp  of  the  horses,  and  the  unmusical  shouts  of  the 


226  BERENICE. 

drivers ;  steam-mills,  railroads,  and  all  the  means  and 
appliances  of  modern  industry  and  progress,  meet  the 
eye.  Men,  of  various  nations  and  dissimilar  creeds, 
in  unsympathetic  tones  desecrate  the  old  shrines 
where  these  wandering  children  of  nature,  with  mys 
terious  rites,  consigned  to  earth  their  dead,  trusting 
that  their  souls  hail  passed  to  the  pleasant  hunting- 
grounds  which  await  them  heyond  the  grave. 

All  dreams  must  have  an  end.  Mine  had.  Friend 
Murray  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm,  and  led  me 
away  to  the  carriage  waiting  close  by.  A  pleasant 
drive  brought  us  to  the  house,  where  I  met  such 
a  welcome  as  made  my  heart  bound  again.  All 
aglow  with  happiness  they  hurried  me  to  the  tea- 
table. 

"  Berthold  not  come  yet?"    said  friend  Murray. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Mary,  the  wife  of  John.  "We 
will  not  wait,  he  is  so  uncertain." 

Just  then  a  shadow  darkened  the  open  window, 
and  the  person  in  question  stepped  into  the  room. 
I  looked  up.  Our  eyes  met.  There  was  the  haunt 
ing  dream  of  girlhood  standing  before  me  —  tangible, 
alive.  An  instant  —  the  bewildering,  deafening,  ever- 


BERENICE.  227 

lasting  thunders  of  Niagara  were  sounding  in  my 
ears.  I  felt  myself  floating  like  a  weed  on  the 
•edge  of  that  terrible  abyss ;  and  then,  —  I  don't  quite 
remember  what,  everything  was  so  sudden,  so  indis 
tinct,  —  I  sat  in  a  large  arm-chair,  and  he  was  hold 
ing  both  my  hands,  and  his  touch  thrilled  me  from 
head  to  foot.  Mary  Murray  said, 

"She   is   so   exhausted   with   the  journey." 

"  And  the  long  fast,  I  dare  say,"  chimed  in  com 
fortable  John. 

They  wheeled  me  up  to  the  tea-table;  I  protested 
against  being  considered  an  invalid;  declared  myself 
quite  well,  which  Berthold.  I  thought,  rather  mischiev 
ously  certified  to,  immediately  prescribing  tea  and 
toast,  which  I  quietly  consented  to  take. 

There  was  no  formal  introduction.  My  Quaker 
friends  called  him  "  Berthold  St.  Cyr;"  he,  falling 
into  the  habit  of  those  around  him,  called  me  "Bere 
nice,"  as  though  he  had  known  me  forever. 

And  so  we  met  again.  I  had  said  —  and  I  believed 
when  I  said  it  —  there  could  be  no  second  passion, 
after  the  first  passionate  young  dream  of  youth.  That 
lost  or  broken,  the  heart  could  never  know  another. 


228  BERENICE. 

But  there  came  a  day  in  which  iny  cold  philosophy 
was  baffled.  I  knew  that  the  motion  of  my  blood 
might  be  disturbed ;  and  the  veil,  in  which  I  so  proudly 
wrapped  myself,  might  be  rent,  and  fall  off,  to  leave 
me  shivering  in  the  light  of  truth. 

That  evening  passed  quickly ;  and  my  gentle  host 
ess  kissed  me  "Good-night,"  and  left  me  to  my 
self.  There  was  a  whirlwind  of  new  experiences  for 
me  to  battle  with  —  a  warfare  of  strange  emotions 
at  work  in  my  own  heart,  which  I  dared  not  ana 
lyze.  I  was  afraid  to  think.  Was  it  cowardice  or 
wisdom  ?  Perhaps  both.  My  heart  was  tugging  at 
the  lock  to  which  the  key  was  lost.  Day  after  day 
we  saw  each  other,  but  kept  no  record  of  the  hours. 
Like  two  happy  children  let  loose  from  school,  the 
weeks  were  one  bright  holiday. 

Glad  as  the  birds,  I  sang  in  the  woods,  as  we  ram 
bled,  unquestioned.  I  could  make  nothing  of  it;  but 
it  seemed  like  stories  I  had  heard  of  happy  youth 
in  fairy  land.  It  had  been  years  since  I  had  tasted 
such  perfect  freedom;  never,  with  such  a  companion. 

Berthold  St.  Cyr  perfectly  answered  my  ideal  of 
excellence  in  manhood.  I  was  like  one  happily 


BERENICE.  229 

awakened  from  a  nightmare  dream,  in  which  an  ob 
scure  light  had  discovered  hideous  forms.  I  opened 
my  eyes,  and  there  appeared  grace,  sunshine,  and 
music  to  greet  me.  I  slipped  back  through  all  the 
mournful  past,  and  stood  again  in  the  glow  of  my 
eighteenth  summer,  and  that  first  wild  heart-beat.  I 
threw  away  the  broken  links  between  then  and 
now.  Yesterday  and  to-morrow  yielded  to  the 
blissful  serenity  of  to-day  in  perfectness  of  hope  and 
trust. 

The  present  was  a  sweet  enigma,  which  I  cared  not 
even  to  guess  at.  We  rode,  walked,  talked,  and 
studied  together ;  and  each  new  day  brought  Ber- 
thold  St.  Cyr,  with  books  and  treasures  of  mind, 
gleaned  from  the  lore  of  many  lands,  till  it  seemed 
the  heavens  were  scarcely  broad  enough  to  hold  the 
incense  of  gladness  rising  up  from  the  altar  whereon 
the  offerings  of  our  hearts  were  laid. 

I  did  not  question  why  he  came,  with  the  splendor 
of  his  genius  and  the  greatness  of  his  soul,  to  illume 
and  make  glad  the  deserted  temple  of  my  soul.  He 
was  to  me  the  human  type  of  divine  beneficence.  I 
rested  beneath  his  smile.  I  had  never  dreamed  of 
20 


230  BERENICE. 

anything  half  so  beautiful,  half  so  glorious.  He,  so 
strong  and  grand!  I  could  have  sat  at  his  feet  for 
ever. 

Several  weeks  of  cloudless  sunshine  had  passed,  and 
he  had  never  once  referred  to  our  first  meeting.  It 
was  evening;  we  had  been  watching  the  sunset.  He 
spoke  abruptly  :  "  How  little  you  are  changed  in  all 
these  years  !  Let  us  talk  of  what  has  happened  to  each 
of  us  in  the  interim." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  much  in  the  interval,  which 
might  have  changed  me  more,  was  yet  unknown  to 
him. 

"  Your  womanhood  nobly  fulfils  the  promise  of  your 
girlhood,"  he  went  on  remarking. 

I  could  not  bear  it;  it  seemed  so  like  mockery. 
He  took  my  hand.  I  turned  from  him  with  a  shudder. 
Berthold,  ever  mindful  of  my  comfort,  hastily  thrust 
down  the  sash  of  the  window  by  which  we  were  sit 
ting.  Did  he  think  it  was  the  night-air  chilled  me  ? 

"  Berenice!" 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  and  manner  which  a 
woman's  intuition  never  leaves  her  at  fault  in  under 
standing. 


BERENICE.  231 

"You  are  not  surprised;  you  will  not  be  sur 
prised" —  he  was  speaking  very  quickly,  but  I  dashed 
in  with  an  interruption. 

"  0,  no ;    nothing  can  surprise  me!" 

"  You  are  fantastic  to-night, —  in  a  wayward  humor." 

"  Don't  tease  me  !  " 

"Not  angry?" 

"No." 

"  Then  may  I  hope  -    — " 

I  dared  not  listen  to  that  hope.  How  to  avoid  it  ? 
I  started  up  and  exclaimed,  "I  have  found  the  old 
ballad  you  desired  so  much  to  hear.  Shall  I  sing  it 
for  you  now?" 

At  that  moment  John  Murray,  recreant  Quaker  that 
he  was,  came  to  challenge  Berthold  to  a  game  of  chess. 
I  looked  over  the  game  a  little  while,  then  went  out 
alone  into  the  pleasant  evening  air  to  cool  the  fever 
of  my  thoughts,  if  possible. 

During  that  half  hour  of  self-examination,  I  pon 
dered  on  many  things  that  had  never  before  entered 
my  heart,  even  as  questions  of  an  instant.  The  ques 
tion  came  up  before  me,  "Does  Berthold  St.  Cyr 

know  that  I  am  not  free  to  wed?" 

• 


232  BERENICE. 

Delicacy  had  heretofore  kept  me  silent  on  that 
topic  of  my  peculiar  position,  and  he  had  never  alluded, 
until  to-night,  to  anything  which  might  bring  up  a 
subject  which  I  was  too  glad  to  be  able  to  forget. 

"  Checkmate  ! " 

An  instant  more  he  was  beside  me. 

"  Berenice  !  " 

My  hour  had  come. 

"You  will  listen  to  me  now.  I  must  say  a  few 
formal  words  to  you,  that  we  may  more  fully  under 
stand  each  other.  I  would  speak  to  you  of  our 
possible  future." 

Our  possible  future  !  and,  to  speak  of  that,  involves 
the  actual  past. 

"  When  I  first  saw  you,  dear  Berenice,  so  perfect 
was  the  charm  your  presence  wrought  on  me,  it  could 
not  be  forgotten.  That  one  look,  from  your  serious 
brown  eyes,  drew  me  to  you  with  a  most  final  and 
instinctive  bond. 

"  Had  I  been  free  as  now,  we  should  not  have  parted, 
except  at  your  desire ;  for  our  mutual  glances  so  pro 
foundly  met.  But  a  law  of  justice  lay  between  us. 
Then  I  was  betrothed  to  the  daughter  of  my  father's 


BERENICE.  233 

• 

friend,  whose  plantation  joined  our  own.  It  had  been 
the  heart-fell^  wish  of  both  our  fathers  to  see  their 
interests  united  by  the  union  of  their  children ;  —  each 
with  an  only  child  —  both  children  motherless.  We 
grew  up,  fond,  as  boy  and  girl.  Few  other  companions 
shared  our  early  sports.  Ida  was  educated  quite  at 
home ;  and,  when  I  left  her  for  a  college  life,  we  felt 
the. parting  deeply. 

"  We  were  old  enough  to  understand  the  fond  design 
of  our  two  fathers.  We  loved  each  other  tenderly  j  and 
then  neither  of  us  ever  thought  of  analyzing  the 
motive  power,  assuming  it  to  be  love.  For  several 
years  a  faithful  correspondence,  and  an  occasional  visit 
to  my  southern  home,  gave  me  all  I  knew  of  Ida. 

"  My  collegiate  course  completed,  I  returned  home 
ward,  and,  stopping  at  Niagara,  met  you  on  the  way. 
I  had  seen  but  little  of  women ;  but  there  was  something 
electric  in  your  tone  and  look,  something  so  different 
from  that  of  any  other  woman  I  had  ever  met,  it  made 
me  thoughtful.  I  hastened  on,  and  tried  to  forget 
you,  and  did,  almost ;  for,  in  the  bustle  of  preparation 
for  our  nuptials,  which  were  hastening  to  solemnization  ; 
in  the  renewal  of  companionship  with  the  fascinating 
20* 


234  BERENICE. 

* 

southern  maiden,  she  whom  I  believed  my  own  true 
Ida,  I  found  little  time  to  give  to  ^n  evanescent 
memory. 

"  One  week  before  the  day  I  should  have  called 
her  '  wife,'  chance  revealed  to  me  a  conspiracy  against 
my  peace  and  honor  too  damnable  to  speak.  I  will 
not  shock  you  with  the  distasteful  detail  of  the  cheat 
so  cunningly  devised  for  me.  Suffice  it  to  say,  its 
baseness  almost  caused  me  to  lose  faith  in  woman.  It 
sacked  my  heart  of  its  abundant  wealth,  and  sent  me 
forth  beggared  of  trust  and  confidence  in  all  humanity. 

"I  left  a  sign -to  prove  to  her  I  knew  her  perfidy, 
and  went  abroad  for  several  years.  I  could  not  tell 
my  own  father  the  cause  I  had  to  hate  the  neighbor 
hood  of  home,  rather  preferring  to  hear  from  him  the 
charge  of  fickleness,  than  by  an  explanation  to  expose 
Ida  to  his  contempt.  She  escaped  detection,  and  finally 
wedded  an  honest  man,  who  loved  her,  and,  in  his  bliss 
ful  ignorance,  is  happy  in  her  arms. 
% 

"  When  years  had  passed,  I  sought  my  home  again, 

and  found  my  father  changed  and  broken  by  disease, 
and  needing  much  my  care  and  presence  to  soothe  his 
declining  years.  And  I  need  not  tell  you,  Bere- 


BERENICE.  235 

nice,  my  joy  to  find  you  free,  unmarried,  and  to 
hope » 

"  Stay,  stay  !  "  I  whispered  huskily.  "  You  are 
mistaken  !  I  am  not  unmarried  —  not  free  !  I  have 
been  silent  too  long !  Can  you  forgive  me  ? " 

"Forgive  you!  0  God,  what  have  you  done?" 
He  wrung  my  hand  in  silent  agony. 

But  when  I  showed  him  all  that  had  been,  from 
first  to  last,  —  all  the  doubtings,  despairings,  hopings, 
of  those  weary  years ;  how  I  had  suffered,  toiled, 
struggled,  hoping  against  hope, — -I  felt  a  tear  drop, 
not  my  own,  upon  the  hand  he  still  clasped  in  his. 

"Your   name?" 

"I  chose  to  wear  the  proud  name  my  father  bore. 
It  never  had  dishonored  me.  His  name,  the  name 
my  children  bore,  was  like  a  curse  upon  my  head. 
Have  I  been  wrong?" 

' c  Perhaps  in  that  you  have.  All  would  not  recog 
nize  or  understand  your^  reasons.  That  matters  not, 
now.  It  is  too  late.  We  may  be  friends,  at  least. 
Berenice,  we  might  be  more " 

"But  listen  to  me," — for  I  sought  to  silence 
words  I  ought  not  to  hear.  u  If  human  forethought 


236  BERENICE. 

can  avail;  if  the  watchful  care  and  earnest  devotion 
of  a  true  heart  can  win  you  back  to  dearer  memo 
ries,  till  the  dream  of  happiness  shall  become  a 
reality,  here  do  I  pledge  every  drop  of  blood  in 
my  veins  to  your  service  while  life  possesses  me ! 
Noble,  courageous  woman,  grant  me  the  right  to  be 
your  champion,  and  I  am  blessed  in  the  mission.'7 

As  I  heard,  I  knew  my  heart  had  found  a  home. 
Bewildered  with  happiness,  I  sank  on  my  knees;  my 
head  fell  on  my  clasped  hands,  amidst  the  trellised 
vines.  There  I  wept  the  sweetest  tears  that  ever 
soothed  my  eyes.  Berthold  St.  Cyr  knelt  beside  me, 
and  there  was  that  holy  pledge  approved. 

We  may  preach  to  ourselves  the  whole  moral 
code;  may  cling  with  a  death-grasp  to  the  old  con 
ventional  dogmas  of  society;  but  neither  they  nor  we 
can  control  the  beating  of  the  heart,  the  language 
of  the  eye.  Speech  or  silence  is  alike  eloquent.  A 
single  sigh,  a  touch  of  the  h#nd, — and  the  brain  reels, 
the  brow  flushes,  and  we  stagger  as  from  a  heavy 
blow.  Instinctively  we  clutch  at  the  heart  to  still 
its  emotions,  —  the  wild,  unruly  heart ;  it  has  with 
one  strong  bound  overleaped  the  barrier  our  pride 


BEKENICE.  237 

had  set  up.  The  scroll,  in  which  we  had  engrossed 
our  resolution,  has  been  consumed  beneath  the  fire 
of  one  single  glance.  Flight  is  impossible ;  surren 
der  alone  desirable.  "Life  or  death,"  laughs  the 
fiend.  The  pale  lips  almost  murmur  "  death,"  when 
the  calm  angel  of  Duty  imprints  a  cold  kiss  on 
the  forehead,  and  we  are  saved. 

Years  of  penance  might  atone  for  that  one  strong, 
delirious  dream. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

A  LETTER  from  Dr.  Gaston  came  to  strengthen  me 
at  this  critical  juncture ;  and  much  I  needed  this 
support.  He  said,  ' '  My  peace  be  with  you !  Learn 
that  self-reliance  which  is  solitary  and  unsympathetic 
because  it  is  peer-less.  You  incline  to  live  in  your 
affections,  but  you  are  capable  of  living  in  your 
will,  and  in  your  rights ;  and  the  Fate  above  Jove 
.seems  to  have  decreed  that,  for  the  present,  you 
must.  Remember  you  are  your  own  great  end,  and 
train  yourself  to  cut  the  meshes  of  sentiment  when 
they  grow  too  controlling.  Don't  attempt  to  live 
an  ideal  life.  Its  forms  are  purely  hypothetical, 
being  never  realized;  whereas,  the  acts  of  practical 
life,  like  native  crystals,  though  theoretically  imper 
fect,  are  real  and  valuable." 

I  thought  I  had  imbibed  the  principles  of  this  phi 
losophy,  but  found  my  former  blind  faith  an  illusion. 


BERENICE.  239 

My  vacation  expired.  Half  sorrowful,  I  said 
"Good-by"  to  my  hospitable  entertainers,  Mary  and 
John  Murray. 

Berthold  was  to  be  my  very  ceremonious  escort 
to  town,  for  the  city  was  his  destination  likewise. 
Once  there,  I  stepped  cheerfully  into  the  usual  rou 
tine  of  occupation.  My  classes  increased,  and  I 
found  but  little  time  during  the  day  for  social  con 
verse;  but  the  evenings  were  more  unoccupied.  Yet 
a  good  portion  of  that  I  could  spare  was  monopo 
lized  by  "  that  St.  Cyr,"  as  he  was  denominated 
by  Mrs.  Hersey,  the  friend  with  whom  I  was  mak 
ing  a  temporary  home. 

It  was  too  soon  for  the  fashionable  portion  of 
society  to  be  at  home.  Half  the  world  were  at 
Newport  and  other  seaside  resorts ;  the  other  half 
hid  themselves  in  the  back  apartments  of  their  spa 
cious  dwellings,  closing  the  front  entirely,  and  leav 
ing  everybody  who  was  anybody  to  suppose  they 
were  out  of  town,  —  and  they  snugly  stowed  all  the 
while  in  their  own  basements.  That  was  a  way  to 
make  up  arrears  in  the  yearly  expenses.  By  that 
means,  Mrs.  Tab  could  appear  in  a  new  full  hat, 


240  BERENICE. 

ornamented  in  the  most  superb  and  recherche  style. 
And  Mrs.  Grub  has  saved  enough,  by  staying  at 
home,  to  enable  her  to  sport  an  elegant  Cashmere, 
and  to  flaunt  it  in  the  envious  eyes  of  her  oppo 
site  neighbor,  who  would  go  to  Newport,  though  her 
husband  couldn't  afford  it,  and  must  wait  till  next 
year  for  her  Cashmere. 

Just  round  the  corner  is  Mr.  Tel  well,  who  dared 
not  trust  his  young,  foolish  \vife  at  a  watering-place 
alone  ;  and,  as  he  could  not  go  with  her,  he  bought  her 
off  with  a  set  of  Honiton  laces  —  only  three  hun 
dred  dollars!  Poor  Telwell ! 

Neighborhood  gossip,  I  assure  you;  nothing  more. 
Ill-nature,  I  declare !  I  do  not  believe  one  half  of  it. 

Berthold  came  to  tell  me  he  was  summoned  away. 
A  few  days,  and  I  should  see  him  no  more !  How 
will  it  be  with  me  then  ?  Hush,  poor  heart !  Ques 
tion  not !  The  drifting  storm  will  pass;  and  leave 
thee.  Let  it  sweep  on. 

I  had  frequently  passed  the  corner  where  the  ap 
ple-woman,  Becky  Tollman,  used  to  sit.  Her  stand 
was  occupied  by  another,  and  I  had  no  clue  to  her 
whereabouts ;  and  not  the  least  particle  of  informa- 


BERENICE.  241 

tion  could  be  squeezed  or  coaxed  from  a  surly  suc 
cessor,  who  evidently  lacked  those  finer  feelings 
which  had  been  the  sole  charm  of  her  predecessor. 

It  was  October ;  sear,  brown  October ;  with  its 
heaps  of  withered  leaves,  and  gusty  winds ;  and  that 
day  the  sable  skirts  of  the  skies  were  dripping  with 
rain,  and  the  city  scowled  in  gloom.  The  mud  in 
the  streets  was  ankle-deep;  but,  booted,  and  with 
an  umbrella,  I  went  my  customary  rounds,  in  spite 
of  the  storm. 

All  up  and  down  the  streets,  as  is  usual  in  rainy 
weather,  miserable-looking  children,  broom  in  hand, 
did  their  best  to  make  the  crossings  passable;  dodg 
ing  and  ducking  the  danger  of  being  run  over, 
and  stretching  eager  hands  for  a  penny  or  more, 
just  as  the  benevolence  of  the  passer-by  might  die- 
tate ;  and,  poor  things !  often  disappointed  in  one,  and 
scouring  away,  nothing  daunted,  the  moment  they 
saw  an  opening  for  attack  on  some  more  favorable- 
looking  individual,  on  the  opposite  side;  and,  some 
times,  when  the  disappointment  has  been  often  repeated 
and  keenly  felt,  a  round  of  curses  is  bowled  from 
21 


242  BERENICE. 

the    sweeper's    lips,  after   the   inattentive   or  scowling 
traveller. 

I  stopped,  though  the  driving  rain  was  pelting 
against  my  slender  defence,  for  a  few  moments/  to 
watch  their  active  and  dexterous  escape  from  cart 
wheels,  omnibuses,  horses'  legs,  and  various  other 
inconveniences  that  assailed  them.  Most  of  these  dar 
ing  little  witches  took  the  risk  of  life  and  limb 
quite  in  sport,  chattering  like  magpies  to  each  other 
as  they  stopped  to  take  breath  and  count  their  gains. 
Bedraggled  and  spattered  with  the  mud,  the  wild 
hair  stringing  about  their  poverty-stricken  faces,  what 
did  they  look  like?  And,  for  all  the  rain,  I  stayed 
to  dream  of  what  they  are,  and  would  be.  Once 
little,  tender,  helpless  infants,  pillowed  and  nursed, 
with  tender  care,  at  their  mothers'  breasts ;  inno 
cent,  close-watched  by  angel  ministrants  besides.  Had 
the  angels  forgotten  them  now?  Now,  they  were 
girls,  exposed  to  dangers  of  all  sorts,  coarse  jibes  of 
men,  and  trampling  feet  of  horses ;  impurity  with 
out,  want  and  suffering  within.  And  these  will  be 
women  —  perhaps  wives  and  mothers  !  0,  God,  what 
training  for  that  holy  trust !  I  could  not  forbear  a 


BERENICE. 


243 


shudder,  when  I  thought  what  these  girls  might  be 
aside  from  all  this,  imbibing  thus  early  a  love  for 
life  in  the  streets ;  bred  in  the  streets,  perhaps 
to  die  there,  not  in  pursuit  of  honest  gain,  or  a 
beggar's  thankless  pittance. 

Where  are  the  mothers  of  salvation?  "Where  the 
women  God  has  blessed?  Sitting  at  ease  in  Zion, 
heedless  of  all  the  gentle  charities  they  might  dis 
pense?  What  are  a  few  street-sweepers'  souls,  more 
or  less,  to  them?  Their  white,  comfortable  hands 
are  folded  on  velvet  cushions,  and  daily  new  dainties 
tempt  their  appetites.  Their  time  is  all  occupied, 
and  a  vast  amount  of  money  is  generously  sacri 
ficed  to  charities,  they  don't  know  what,  —  nor  when, 
nor  how  dispensed.  Call  the  maid  to  dress  her 
lady's  hair.  There  are  prayers  in  the  church  at 
ten. 

There  was  a  sharp  tussle  between  two  of  these 
girls.  One  had  dropped  her  broom,  in  making  a 
sudden  movement  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  pair 
of  fleet  horses,  and  it  was  smashed  to  uselessness. 
There  was  another,  a  puny  and  sad-faced  thing, 
whom  I  had  observed  get  more  growls  than  pence. 


244  ,      BERENICE. 

But  she  kept  struggling  with  the  mud,  plying  her 
broom  as  though  life  hung  on  the  sweeping  she  did, 
and  not  on  the  money  she  got.  She  was  deformed, 
too,  but  surprisingly  active,  as  she  turned  and  strove 
with  the  taller,  stronger  girl,  who  was  determined 
that  might  should  be  right,  as  she  wrestled  with 
the  weaker  to  rob  her  of  her  broom.  She  has  it ! 
No ;  the  little  one  holds  on  yet !  The  tall  vixen 
twists  and  pulls.  The  pale  one  turns,  and  clings, 
with  her  supple  arms,  to  her  last  hope.  The  strife 
grows  warm.  The  carriages  thicken  on  the  cross 
ing.  Vixen  is  pushing  the  deformed  into  the  thick 
dangers,  under  the  very  bellies  of  the  horses.  They 
will  both  be  killed!  No;  not  yet!  Vixen  holds 
up  the  broom,  with  a  slight  "  hurra !  "  She  has 
triumphed.  Why  don't  the  little  one  get  out  of  the 
way  of  that  carriage?  She  sees  her  danger  —  tries 
to  escape ;  too  late !  She  is  struck  down  !  Heaven 
shield  her ! 

I  dashed  across  just  as  the  man  on  the  box,  by 
a  skilful  manoeuvre,  avoided  driving  completely  over 
the  little  body,  rolled  like  a  bundle  of  rags  in  the 
filthy  street.  I  lifted  and  supported  her  in  my  arms. 


BERENICE.  245 

"Is  she  dead?  The  blood  is  oozing  slowly  from 
her  mouth !  "  It  was  impossible  to  tell  how  much 
she  might  be  injured.  Somebody  got  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  stood  beside  me. 

"  Berenice !  " 

That  voice  never  sounded  half  so  welcome  as  then. 

"  Berthold,  this  little  girl  is  dying,  I  am  afraid. 
Who  knows  where  her  home  is,  if  she  has  one  ? 
Where  is  the  other  —  the  girl  who  got  the  broom 
away  from  her?  Ask,  St.  Cyr,  if  any  one  can  tell 
where  this  child  belongs ;  we  will  take  her  there." 

One  of  the  other  girls  did  know.  "  She  lives  in 
Stren's  court,  upper  end ;  close  by." 

"  Show   us   the   way  !  " 

Berthold  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  got  into  the 
carriage,  and  in  five  minutes  we  were  in  Stren's 
court. 

In  a  miserable,  dark  back  room,  upon  a  bed  which 
bore  few  traces  of  comfort,  lay  poor  Becky  Tollman, 
the  apple-woman,  helplessly  rheumatic.  She  knew 
me,  in  a  moment,  and  welcomed  me  fondly,  but 
wonderingly.  I  told  her  what  had  befallen  her  grand 
child,  —  for  such  I  knew  she  must  be. 
21* 


246  BERENICE. 

Berthold  laid  lier  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  we  set 
about  restoring  her  to  sensibility  and  comfort,  if  possible, 
It  was  more  easily  done  than  I  had  at  first  feared. 
The  outward  bruises  were  not  bad.  What  the  inward 
hurt  might  prove,  could  not  yet  be  ascertained. 

The  child  began  to  move,  and  mutter,  "  Leave 
my  broom !  I  a' n't  agoin'  to  let  go  my  broom  !  — 
don't!  Granny  told  me  not  to  go;  but  I  didn't 
mind  her !  " 

"True,  for  you,"  said  Becky,  who  had  raised  her 
self  a  little.  "You  know,  ma'am,  I'm  poor.  I've 
always  ben  poor ;  and  now  I  'm  sick,  added  to  it. 
That  child 's  got  a  heart.  She  told  me,  says  she, 
'I'm  goin'  out,  granny,  to  sweep  the  crossin',  and 
get  somethin'  to  buy  bread,  like  the  other  girls  in 
the  court.' 

"  Says  I,  l  Becky,'  — her  name 's  Becky,  too,  ma'am, 
—  'you  can't  do  it;  you  a'n't  strong  enough.'  But 
since  I  took  the  inflammatory  rheumatis,  we  've  ben 
poorer  than  ever;  and  Lina,  serving  her  time  to  the 
mantuamaker's,  can  do  but  little  out  of  working  hours 
to  help  pay  for  bread.  And  it's  so  dark  here, 
Becky  can't  sew  rainy  days;  an'  if  she  could,  earns 


BERENICE.  247 

but  little ;  and  she  thought  she  'd  make  more  on  the 
crossings  of  a  rainy  day.  I  told  her  she  couldn't; 
but  she  would  try,  and  this  is  what's  come  on  V 

"Will  it  cost  a  great  deal  of  money  to  get  me 
well?"  sobbed  the  young  sufferer,  who  was  lying 
quite  still,  with  the  tears  gathering  in  her  large, 
thoughtful  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  her  grandmother's 
words. 

Berthold  St.  Cyr  was  there,  and  both  Beckys  were 
silenced  with  comfort.  I  almost  envied  them.  They 
could  accept  his  protection,  his  care. 

And,  when  he  went,  I  stayed  to  care  for  them 
until  Lina's  return.  A  physician  had  been  called 
to  examine  the  child's  hurts.  The  hemorrhage  had 
ceased,  and  her  symptoms  were  altogether  less  dan 
gerous  than  at  first  we  supposed. 

At  nightfall  Lina  came.  She  started  at  seeing  a 
stranger  in  possession  of  the  apartment.  Another 
glance  disclosed  to  her  wondering  eyes  that  something 
serious  had  occurred ;  and,  with  affectionate  •  solici 
tude,  she  'hurried  to  the  bedside  to  learn  what  it 
might  be.  A  few  brief  words  served  to  explain  the 
state  of  affairs ;  and  the  poor  girl,  overcome  by  her 


248  BERENICE. 

feelings,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  sobbed  a  prayer  of 
thanks  to  God  that  it  was  no  worse.  And  then, 
collecting  herself,  she  arose  calmly  and  composedly, 
went  about  the  preparations  for  the  scanty  meal, 
which  she,  poor  child  must  take  alone  that  night, 
every  moment  turning  to  speak  a  gentle  word,  or  to 
send  a  look,  brimming  with  affection,  toward  her  sister 
and  her  helpless  grandmother. 

The  apple- woman  had  told  me  that  her  grand 
daughter  was  "pretty  as  a  pearl,"  and  so  she  was. 
A  perfect  Madonna  face,  exquisitely  colored  and  pro 
portioned,  with  that  chasteness  of  expression  indica 
tive  of  purity  of  thought  and  high-toned  sentiment; 
she  was  superior  in  every  way  to  her  station.  Barely 
sixteen  summers  had  passed  over  her,  and  yet  the 
sign  and  seal  of  womanhood  was  there,  palpable  and 
perfect.  She  suffered  with  and  for  those  she  loved. 
I  longed  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart,  and  call  her 
"child!" 

Berthold  came  to  take  me  home,  and  then  he, 
and  Lina,  and  I  discussed  the  expediency  of  remov 
ing  the  invalids,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  a  better 
atmosphere  than  that  low,  damp  room  could  afford. 


BERENICE.  249 

"  Your  grandmother  will  never  be  better  while 
she  remains  here.  Lina,"  said  Berthold,  "and  I  in 
sist,  as  I  have,  in  a  measure,  been  the  cause  of 
this  new  trial  (artful  Berthold,  to  put  it  on  that 
ground,  so  that  she  could  not  object  to  what  he 
proposed  to  do !),  I  insist  on  making  myself  respon 
sible  for  your  well-being,  until  your  sister  shall 
recover  her  usual  health.  Indeed,  Lina,  your  grand 
mother  does  not  disapprove,  and  you  must  not  object; 
for  we  are  your  friends,  and  friendship  has  very 
sacred  privileges." 

Lina  tried  to  thank  him,  and  did  just  what  any 
other  grateful  creature  would  do  under  similar  cir 
cumstances,  burst  into  tears !  So  I  gathered  her 
close  to  my  heart,  and  held  her  there,  soothing  her 
with  motherly  fondness,  till  her  sobs  were  hushed, 
and  she  could  look  the  thanks  she  could  not  speak. 
And  then  we  bade  "Good-night"  to  the  much-cheered 
trio,  and  left  them  until  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

BERTHOLD  never  rested  until  he  found  an  airy, 
comfortable  tenement,  in  a  comparatively  clean  loca 
tion,  to  dispose  "his  family,"  as  he  called  them; 
and  Mrs.  Hersey  and  myself  were  easily  pressed  into 
the  service  to  see  that  everything  was  adapted,  on 
a  moderate  scale,  for  their  comfort.  Two  rooms  (it 
was  almost  a  palace  compared  to  the  dingy  room  they 
came  from)  and  a  small  pantry,  well  stocked  with 
all  that  was  needful  for  the  present. 

Berthold  was  as  thoughtful  as  a  father  for  his 
children ;  for,  when  Lina  took  possession  of  her 
new  domicile,  she  found  receipted  bills  from  the 
baker,  provision-dealer,  and  coal-merchant,  for  six 
months  in  advance.  (Dear  Berthold !  who  could 
help  loving  him  for  his  kindness  to  others,  if  not 
for  himself?)  Then  an  easy  vehicle  was  chartered 
to  convey  first  Becky  the  elder,  and  then  Becky 


BERENICE.  251 

the  younger,  to  the  home  prepared ;  and  the  glad 
ness  and  thanksgiving  of  the  simple-hearted  apple- 
woman,  when  she  found  herself  laid  on  a  mattress 
arranged  with  particular  reference  to  her  old,  tired 
aching  bones  !  And  those  great  thoughtful  eyes  of 
the  little  hunchback  looked  solemn  as  stars  wonder 
ing  at  the  birth  of  a  new  world. 

"0,  granny,"  she  said,  "it  is  so  light  here,  I 
can  sew  all  day,  and  help  Lina  ever  so  much.  I 
think  I  can  earn  a  shilling  now,  instead  of  six 
pence  !  0,  I  'm  so  glad !  What  a  nice  chair ! 
It  fits  my  back !  It  will  never  pain  me  now  as 
it  used  when  I  sat  on  the  old  trunk,  with  nothing 
but  the  damp  wall  to  rest  it  against.  I  am  so 
glad !  Just  try  it,  Lina,  do ;  and  there  is  one  for 
granny  —  poor  granny,  if  she  is  ever  able  to  sit 
in  it;"  and  she  looked  sorrowfully,  and  half  doubt- 
ingly,  at  the  venerated  prostrate  form. 

Lina  tried  the  chair,  and  rejoiced  with  Becky  the 
younger,  over  .its  evident  capabilities  for  comfort. 

But  the  child  was  still  very  weak,  and  she  must 
lie  down  for  a  little  while;  to  which  necessity  she 
patiently  submitted.  She  clasped  her  small  thin 


252  BERENICE. 

hands  over  her  deformed  chest,  and  called  Lina,  to 
ask  her  if  she  did  not  think  Mr.  Berthold  St.  Cyr 
an  angel. 

Lina   said,    "As  good    as    an    angel,    Becky;    and 
God   has  sent   him  to  us." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Becky  the  elder.  "  God  has 
sent  him.  I  never  could  see,  afore,  that  God  remem 
bered  me,  or  sent  me  anything  but  poverty  and  pain. 
I'm  poor,  and  I've  always  ben  poor  for  these  last 
six  years,  since  these  children's  father  died.  And 
there's  ben  nights  and  nights  when  I  couldn't  sleep 
a  wink  for  thinking  what  would  become  of  us  all, 
next  day.  But,  in  the  morning,  I'd  think  of  some 
thing  I  could  pawn  or  sell  that  'd  last  us  through. 
And,  somehow,  we  've  got  along,  and  nothin'  's  hap 
pened  to  Lina  yet.  I  felt  afeared  for  her,  and  I 
used  to  get  up  in  the  dark,  and  go  round  and  put 
my  hands  on  her  pretty  head,  and  smooth  her  soft 
hair,  and  cry  easy,  so 's  not  to  waken  her ;  and  I 
hoped  no  worse  storm  would  ever  fall  on  her  sweet 
face  than  her  poor  grandmother's  tears;  and  t'other 
so  helpless.  But  I  thought  'twa'n't  no  use  to  pray. 
But  I  s'pose  I  did  pray  for  all,  and  didn't  know  it. 


BERENICE. 


253 


And  God  heard  'em  when  I  did  not  think  he 
would.  And,  now,  I  've  got  faith,  at  last,  to  be 
lieve  that  they  '11  be  took  care  on  when  I'm  no 
more  use  to  'em.  We  've  found  friends,  and  He 
sent  'em." 

And  so  Becky  Tollman,  the  poor  old  apple-woman, 
found  joy  in  believing.  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

The  day  of  Berthold's  departure  came ;  the  day 
—  the  hour  —  and  he  was  gone.  I  sat  long,  just 
where  he  had  left  me,  gazing  on  the  hand  on  which 
that  last  farewell  kiss  had  been  imprinted.  A  strange 
quietude  settled  over  me  with  the  night-shadows. 
I  invoked  the  guardian  of  my  soul,  and  questioned 
my  own  doubts.  The  stern  replies  humbled  me 
deeply,  as  I  confessed  I  was  no  longer  mistress  of 
myself.  But  I  made  an  abdication  in  favor  of  the 
stern  dictates  of  my  better  nature,  and  inly  pledged 
myself  to  keep  from  him  the  knowledge  of  my 
weakness.  He  had  begged  a  boon  at  parting  that 
was  not  mine  to  grant.  I  would  have  sacrificed 
my  individual  life  for  him,  but  those  young  scions 
of  my  blood  held  a  fee  simple  of  me,  demanding 
22 


254  BERENICE. 

my  first,  best  care ;  yet,  the  memory  of  his  last 
words  fell  on  my  soul  like  the  sound  of  a  trum 
pet  on  the  stillness  of  night,  awakening  throbbing 
answers  throughout  all  the  pulses  of  my  being ! 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

Two  fashionable  young  men  were  sitting  at  their 
wine,  after  dinner;  one,  the  master  of  the  feast, 
Leon  Blandford,  was  doing  that  which  a  man  often 
does  after  the  dessert,  —  telling  his  secrets  freely, — 
of  course,  to  his  intimate  friend. 

"  An  exquisite  creature,  as  you  say,  Blandford. 
But  don't  be  a  fool  about  her,  my  good  fellow.  If 
you  are  tired  of  dancing  attendance  on  her  caprices, 
desert !  You  have  made  her  no  promises." 

"And  yet,  I  feel  like  a  villain;  for,  tacitly,  I 
have  promised  her  everything.  My  acts  have  all 
been  pledges  of  love  and  constancy.  By  my  exclu 
sive  attentions,  I  have  prevented  others  from  address 
ing  her ;  and  she,  with  her  good,  earnest,  trusting 
heart,  has  believed  in  me  as  much  as  though  I  had 
sworn  fidelity  to  her.  I  did  not  mean  to  carry  the 
matter  so  far;  but  we  must  part!" 


256  BERENICE. 

"Pooh,  Blandford !  how  sentimental  you're  grow 
ing  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Lionel  Blandford,  of  all  men  in  the 
world,  taken  to  sentimentalizing  !  It 's  a  good  joke  ! 
Ha !  ha !  Pass  the  wine.  That  contemplative  face 
of  yours  makes  me  dry  as  a  sponge.  Cheer  up, 
man  !  The  maiden  will  be  well  enough !  A  few 
sighs  —  perhaps  tears.  But  a  woman's  heart  is  such 
an  elastic  thing  some  one  will  catch  it  in  the  rebound. 

"  Another  lover,  and  the  scars  of  the  old  wound 
will  be  as  if  they  never  had  been.  A  girl,  fashion 
ably  educated,  as  Mona  Cresson  has  been,  becomes 
the  possessor  of  all  feminine  arts.  The  souls  of 
fashionable  women  are  but  mirrors  of  vanity,  because 
they  are  concerned  only  with  the  pleasures  of  the 
present.  The  sense  of  obligation  to  the  filial  or  the 
marital  bond  gets  to  be  a  jest  and  a  byword.  The 
selfish  principles  are  so  thoroughly  cultivated,  that 
personal  gratification  is  paramount  to  everything  else. 
In  short,  a  woman  of  fashion  is " 

"Hold  there,  Norton!  Don't  be  so  severe  upon 
the  women.  If  all  are  not  pure,  and  beautiful,  and 
wise,  the  few  who  are  so  are  enough  to  leaven  the 
mass.  Besides,  Mona  Cresson  is  not  heartless,  or 


BERENICE.  257 

soulless.  I  will  not  hear  her  traduced !  It  is  not 
her  fault  that  she  loves  me  with  a  passion  that  I 
cannot  return.  I  will  not  hear  a  noble  woman 
spoken  of  lightly  !  " 

' '  But  you  will  do  worse.  You  will  make  her 
jealous  of  Mrs.  Hersey,  and  destroy  the  confidence 
of  each  in  the  other.  Not  that  I  care !  Woman 
is  legitimate  game  for  man !  Maiden  or  wife,  —  all 
the  same !  Ah,  Blandford,  you  are  a  lucky  dog ! 
But  the  secret's  safe,  old  boy,  with  me.  If  I  knew 
you  were  to  run  away  to-morrow  with  that  piquant 
little  woman,  Venetia  Hersey,  I  should  be  as  uncom 
municative  as  the  old  stone  lions  at  the  gate. 

"What  in  the  deuce  is  Hersey  thinking  of,  that 
he  leaves  his  wife  so  continually  to  you;  and  per 
sists  in  a  course  of  neglect  that  would  make  any 
other  woman  a  flirt,  or  break  her  heart?" 

"He  thinks,"  responded  Blandford,  "that  I  am 
not  quite  a  villain,  or  else  he  wishes  me  to  become 
one ;  —  I  cannot  easily  determine  which.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  prove  myself  truer  in  my  friendship  than 
he  is  in  his  duty  to  his  wife." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  friendship  is  only  a  name.  Don't 
22* 


258  BERENICE. 

trust  to  that  to  shield  you  against  a  woman's  charms. 
In  fact,  the  strongly  conflicting  interests  of  society 
entirely  preclude  the  existence  of  friendship,  as  a 
passion,  either  with  man  or  woman." 

"Would  you  have  me  believe  that  the  noblest 
attribute  of  the  soul  is  dying  out?  —  that  there  is 
to  be  no  more  of  that  divine  spirit  of  self-denial, 
the  only  true  leaven  of  humanity  ? " 

"My  opinion,  exactly.  There  is  nobody  left  to 
appreciate  friendship.  It  has  long  been,  in  the  minds 
of  most  men,  a  mere  Quixotism.  If  one  in  our  age 
undertakes  the  bestowal  of  a  generous  friendship,  it 
is  like  casting  pearls  before  swine,  trusting  one's 
scalp  within  reach  of  a  wild  Indian's  tomahawk,  or 
going  to  sleep  beneath  a  tree,  in  whose  branches  an 
anaconda  is  coiling." 

a  Your  comparisons  are  odious.  But,  if  you  thus 
ignore  friendship,  what  will  you  do  with  love  ?  " 

"  Love  !  Pooh  !  the  very  name  makes  me  sick  ! 
There 's  no  such  thing,  save  that  acknowledged  in 
the  category  of  the  sentimentalist,  believed  in  by 
insipid  maidens,  and  limpsy,  beardless  men.  The 
sentiment,  as  it  exists  in  the  minds  of  most  people, 


BERENICE.  259 

is  subservient  to  the  novelistic  tendencies  of  the  age, 
which  teaches  the  passion  of  love  as  a  destiny. 
And  many  imagine  themselves  meeting  their  destinies 
when  they  are  only  yielding  to  the  influences  of 
sensualism.  The  world  must  be  purified,  and  the  slop- 
bowl  of  morality  thoroughly  rinsed  out,  before  people 
can  even  mention  the  name  of  love  without  profanity. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  this  friendship  of  yours,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  term  it,  for  Hersey's  handsome 
wife,  has  had  much  to  do  with  your  change  of 
feeling  for  Mona  Cresson." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  it  has  not.  Seven  o'clock, 
by  Jove !  Norton,  I  sup  with  the  Herseys  this 
evening.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

"At  your  service.  I  am  not  averse  to  the 
society  of  Mrs.  Hersey's  new  friend.  By  the  by, 
Blandford,  is  she  wife  or  widow?  There  is  a  sort 
of  mystery  about  her  which  is  hard  to  solve.  You 
are  doubtless  in  the  family  secrets." 

"  You  had  better  ask  some  one  more  conversant 
with  the  lady's  affairs  than  I  claim  the  honor  of 
being,"  replied  Blandford,  and  the  two  sauntered  leis 
urely  up  Broadway. 


260  BERENICE. 

Mr.  Hersej  had  gone  to  his  club,  leaving  his  wife 
to  amuse  herself  as  best  she  might,  as  some  sensi 
ble  mammas  leave  their  overgrown  daughters  at  play 
with  wax  dolls  and  toys.  It  is  a  wonder  if  they 
do  not  get  tired  of  the  senseless  wax  and  glittering 
frippery,  and  mischievously  take  to  a  very  different 
sort  of  amusement,  not  particularly  approved  of  by 
prudent  parents. 

Venetia  Hersey  was  weary  of  the  monotony  of 
her  home.  She  had  no  child  to  gladden  the  hours 
with  loving  smiles  and  light-hearted  play ;  and  she 
could  not  but  feel  that  the  husband  was  no  more 
the  lover.  What  though  he  paid  the  most  punctil 
ious  regard  to  the  rules  of  etiquette?  What  matter 
that  he  rendered  service  and  devotion  of  manner, 
when  abroad,  which  might  satisfy  the  most  exacting 
of  the  homage-loving  sex,  if  at  home  she  must  con 
tent  herself  with  a  passing  grunt  of  recognition, 
entire  indifference,  or  downright  brutality?  She,  with 
her  fine-spun  theories  of  connubial  bliss,  drilled  into 
a  patient  slave,  must  make  no  remark  when  he 
goes,  ask  no  questions  when  he  comes,  but  receive 
him  with  a  serene  delight  on  his  return  from  some 


BERENICE.      •  261 

dissipating  revel.  Her  soul's  needs  are  never  to  be 
considered. 

Of  what  was  Venetia  Hersey  thinking?  Of  her 
husband  at  his  club?  the  convenient  club  to  which 
husbands  betake  themselves,  nominally,  when  wishing 
to  avoid  the  tedious  monotony  of  matrimonial  life ; 
where  men  do  congregate  to  play,  drink,  smoke,  and 
gossip.  But  often  the  club,  like  the  business  engage 
ment,  serves  but  as  a  blind  for  the  hoodwinked 
wife. 

What  was  she  thinking  of?  —  the  elegance  sur 
rounding  her?  of  the  Gobelin  tapestry?  of  the 
lights,  artistically  shaded,  pouring  a  softened  efful 
gence  on  the  magnificent  furniture,  pictures  and 
decorations  ? 

She  is  clinging,  as  if  with  an  effort  to  keep  still, 
to  the  cushions  of  a  lounge,  on  which  she  has 
thrown  herself.  Her  black,  glossy  hair  has  slipped 
its  fastenings,  and  fallen  in  shining  masses,  finely 
contrasting  with  the  crimson  of  the  damask  cushions, 
against  which  her  head  is  leaning,  with  one  round, 
white  arm  beneath  it,  the  other  hand  half  holding, 
half  dropping,  a  book  in  its  delicate  grasp.  She 


262  BERENICE. 

reads  with  her  eyes,  but  it  is  plain  to  see  her 
thoughts  are  elsewhere.  The  words  on  the  pages 
convey  no  meaning  to  her.  She  listens,  longs  for, 
yet  dreads  something  that  is  to  be.  What  is  it? 
All  at  once  a  painful  thought  darkens  the  fair  brow. 
Her  lips  are  compressed.  The  small  hand  tightens 
on  the  volume;  and,  as  suddenly  relaxing,  it  slides 
inaudibly  down  upon  the  carpet.  She  rises  to  her 
feet,  and,  hastily  re-binding  the  fallen  tresses,  com 
mences  pacing,  with  excited  steps,  up  and  down  her 
costly  prison.  Her  form  dilates.  Her  arms  are 
folded  sternly  across  her  heaving  bosom.  Her  step 
grows  firmer,  and  she  looks  defiant,  with  a  bitter 
expression  on  the  full,  ripe  lips. 

Again  her  mood  changes.  The  sweet  perfume 
from  a  vase  of  rare  flowers  has  softened  her.  She 
approaches  nearer,  and,  bending  over  them,  inhales 
their  exquisite  perfume.  Then  she  buries  her  face 
in  her  clasped  hands;  a  stifling  cry  escapes  from  her 
throbbing  lips,  and  a  wild  swell  of  passion  drifts 
over  and  sways  her  to  and  fro,  till  every  nerve 
trembles  from  the  shock. 

"0,  Leon!     0,    God!      Is  there  no   pity?"    was 


BERENICE.  263 

the  ejaculation  sent  upward,  with  the  incense  of 
flowers,  the  trembling  flashes  of  electric  light,  and 
the  pleading  sigh  from  an  overburdened  heart. 

In  a  few  moments  after,  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
hall,  and  Yenetia  Hersey  received  her  guests  with 
womanly  dignity.  The  storm  of  feeling  gradually  sub 
sided,  and  she  was  herself  once  more. 

I  had  watched  Mrs.  Hersey 's  changing  mood  with 
more  than  friendly  interest.  All  my  womanly  sym 
pathies  were  enlisted.  I,  too,  had  felt  loneliness  a 
burthen,  and  stood,  trembling,  on  the  borders  of  a 
barren  plain,  when,  in  a  few  steps,  I  knew  that 
my  feet  might  tread  the  asphodel,  and  this  sad,  weary 
being  bathe  itself  in  sunlight  and  verdure.  For 
Berthold  had  often  said,  "How  is  it  that  you,  with 
so  large  and  catholic  a  heart  to  others,  can  and  will 
prescribe  to  yourself  so  rigid  a  course  ? " 

There  stood  that  beautiful  woman,  tampering  with 
the  fiend.  True  she  had  drawn  around  her  the 
magic  circle,  which  her  own  lips  must  grant  per 
mission  to  overstep.  I  felt,  in  my  heart,  that  word 
would  never  be  spoken.  Around  her  was  thrown 
the  segis  of  a  husband's  protection ;  and  I  half  feared 


264  BERENICE. 

and  believed  that  he  exposed  her  purposely  to  this 
danger.  He  had  sense  enough  to  see  and  know 
what,  in  most  cases,  the  result  would  be,  of  such  a 
course,  with  such  impulsive  natures. 

That  fascinating  man,  her  husband's  friend,  and 
the  neglected  wife,  thus  brought  into  daily  and 
hourly  communion  with  him, — it  was,  to  say  the 
least,  a  fearful  test  of  woman's  faith,  be  she  ever  so 
strong. 

And  how  will  it  be  with  Yenetia  Hersey?  Her 
spirit,  hurt  by  her  husband's  moroseness,  her  pride, 
outraged  by  his  indifference,  will  she  take  advan 
tage  of  the  mild  by-laws  of  society,  and  the  winked- 
at  foibles  of  her  fashionable  neighbors?  Or  will  she 
lay  the  blight  to  her  heart,  and  stifle,  in  death, 
her  unrequited  hope? 

Does  a  man  think,  when  he  places  a  woman  at  the 
head  of  his  establishment,  and  confers  on  her  the 
honorary  title  of  "wife,"  that  he  has  performed  his 
whole  duty  to  her?  Does  he  think  her,  in  reality,  the 
angel,  by  which  name  he  wooed  her,  and  believe  her 
more  than  human;  that  she  can  be,  do,  bear  all  things 
which  he  would  flinch  under,  and  swerve  from?  Has 


BERENICE.  265 

the  simple  legal  act  made  her  beauty  less  a  provoca 
tion  to  thieves  than  before?  And  does  he  think  her 
so  instantly  endowed  with  superhuman  wisdom,  that 
he  can  leave  her  freely  to  the  honor  of  his  worthy 
co-mates  in  pleasure-seeking,  and  she  remain  un 
scathed  ? 

I  hear  the  young,  true  creatures  clamoring  and 
carping  at  me  for  misdoubting  them.  I  do  not  mis 
doubt  ye  all ;  but  the  annals  of  every-day  life  show 
us  that  Frailty  is  sometimes  the  name  of  woman. 
Man  only  escapes  because  his  actions  are  less  con 
spicuous;  or  because  he  is  something,  and  woman 
nothing,  until  she  breaks  the  laws  man  makes  for 
her;  then  the  law  suddenly  finds  her  a  person,  not 
a  chattel. 

Man  accuses  woman  of  being  capricious,  and  so 
she  is;  but  not  until  he  teaches  her  the  lesson. 
When  a  man  is  once  married,  and  finds  himself 
ill-suited  in  the  match,  he  has  various  sources  of  con 
solation  to  fall  back  upon.  A  woman  has  nothing 
left  to  console  her  but  flirtation,  or  needle-work,  or 
an  invalid's  couch.  And,  if  she  takes  the  latter 
course,  to  spite  him,  she  rapidly  becomes  a  proficient 
23 


206  B  E  11  E  N  I  C  E  . 

in  hysteria  and  vapors,  bringing  in  tlieir  train  all 
sorts  of  evils  that  ever  plagued  a  distempered  spirit. 
With  our  own  hands  we  place  thorns  in  our  pillows, 
to  goad  our  sleepless  heads  withal ;  then  tos-8  and 
groan,  and  rail  against  our  fate, 

My  home  with  Mrs.  Hersey  was  very  pleasant. 
She  needed  me,  for  she  was  unhappy.  We  studied 
together,  and  tried  to  forget  the  sorrowful  by  occu 
pying  ourselves  with  the  beautiful. 

Many  letters  came  from  Berthold,  and  my  heart 
wavered  as  the  spell  of  sweet  enchantment  closed 
around  it.  I  could  scarcely  withstand  those  full, 
soul-breathing  epistles.  The  hopes,  the  earnest  ap 
peals,  made  me  sick  with  doubt  for  both  of  us. 

I  knew  that  I  ought  to  deny  myself  the  danger 
ous  delight  of  answering  or  receiving  such  letters ; 
and  earnestly  and  simply  told  him  my  impression. 
And  then  he  needs  must  write  once  more ;  and  thus 
he  spake  to  me,  while  I  sat  listening  to  the  far-off 
voice,  with  tears  dimming  my  eyes. 

"BERENICE, —  Since  you  reject  all  interference  with 


BERENICE.  267 

your  plans,  that  my  earnest  wishes  for  your  happi 
ness  alone  have  prompted;  since  you  say  you  will 
not  grant  me  the  dear  privilege  of  making  your  past 
a  stepping-stone  to  a  brighter  future;  and  yet  you 
cannot,  will  not  say  that  you  regret  our  mutual 
desire  for  closer  interchange  of  thought  and  feel 
ing, —  I  would  ask,  how  long  can  you  endure  this 
torture?  How  long  can  you  see  me  bear  it?  I 
know  you  would  wish  that  our  correspondence  might 
always  be  the  harmonious  calm,  the  full  music  of 
two  souls  mingling  in  sweet  accord.  I  am  impet 
uous.  But  could  any  man  do  more  than  I  have 
done  to  prove  himself  loyal?  I  have  obeyed  you 
in  all  things ;  left  you  when  you  bade  me ;  or,  in 
your  presence,  stood  afar  off,  that  the  world,  with 
its  thousand  tongues  of  malice,  envy,  and  all  un- 
charitableness,  should  not  couple  your  name  with 
mine.  You  said  that  was  the  only  honorable  course; 
and  have  I  not,  although  sorely  against  my  inclina 
tion,  submitted  to  the  necessity? 

"Is  it  the  fault  of  cither  of  us,  that  an  irresist 
ible  attraction  has  made  us  forever  dependent,  the 
one  upon  the  other?  And  is  punishment  due  for 


268  BERENICE. 

that  which  is  no  crime?  Why  will  you  still  ad 
here  to  this  course  of  cold  reserve,  flinging  me  back 
upon  myself,  and  stifling  the  voice  of  Nature  in 
your  own  heart? 

"  Once  more,  I  make  a  last  appeal  to  your  ten 
derness.  Grant  me  your  acquiescence  in  such  legal 
measures  as  will  further  my  hopes  of  calling  you 
all  my  own.  "Your  faithful 

"  BERTHOLD." 

"  BERTHOLD,  —  I  can  give  but  one  answer  to  all 
you  urge :  the  same  I  have  already  given.  You  re 
proach  me  with  coldness  and  reserve.  Would  to 
God  it  were  less  pain  to  be  so !  But,  Berthold, 
moral  responsibility  is  a  sacred  trust,  committed  to 
each  and  every  one  of  us,  in  order  to  preserve  the 
just  balance  of  character.  We  have  not  only  our 
selves  to  answer  for,  but  others,  who  are  watching 
the  path  we  tread  with  eagle  eyes.  The  few  must 
patiently  submit  to  the  restraints,  imposed  for  the 
good  of  the  many. 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you  things  so  hard  to 
speak?  It  is  useless  for  me  to  reiterate  my  opin- 


BERENICE.  269 

ion    that    merely    legal    forms   have   no    power    over 
the   great   order   of  things. 

"If  you  are  not  content  with  the  highest  friend 
ship  of  which  my  soul  is  capable,  then  your  de 
sires  are  inordinate.  Could  you  read  my  heart,  you 
would  ask  no  more.  I  am  as  I  am;  and  so  must  I 
remain  till  something  greater  than  the  voice  of  man 
pronounces  me  free  to  join  my  fate  with  yours. 

'So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and  me; 
Ill-fated  as  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine, 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace  ;   my  heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it  ! ' 

"And,  0,  Berthold,  it  is  better,  for  both  our  sakes, 
that  this  correspondence  cease  at  once.  And,  until 
happier  days,  it  shall  not  be  renewed !  I  pray  for 
you  ever.  "Your  true-hearted  friend, 

"  BERENICE." 

The  letter  once  gone,  and  then  came  to  me  the 
restlessness  which  nothing  could  allay.  Yes;  one 
consolation.  My  kind  friends,  Mary  and  John  Mur 
ray,  were  now  living  in  town.  To  them  I  could  go, 
and  freely  talk  of  Berthold.  They  knew  and  pitied 
23* 


270  BERENICE. 

the  heart-struggle;  encouraged  me  in  my  determina 
tion,  while  deploring  the  necessity  for  it.  The  love 
of  those  noble  friends  was  the  oasis  in  my  dreary 
desert. 

Weave  in  the  web  of  life  the  troubles  of  infancy, 
the  sorrows  of  women,  the  prayers  of  men,  the  hopes 
of  youth,  the  disappointments  of  age,  —  these  make 
up  the  sombre  texture  of  the  fabric  which  we  call 
life. 

I  still  had  charge  of  Berthold's  pensioners  —  the 
Tollmans.  Old  Becky  was  wTaning  daily;  her  star 
was  almost  set.  But  it  was  such  a  blessing  to  see 
them  so  comfortable,  through  him.  And  he  had 
written  them  such  a  good,  beautiful  letter  at  New 
Year's,  and  remembered  them  with  more  than  words! 
And  they  read  the  letter  to  me ;  and  pretty  Lina 
consulted  me  about  an  acknowledgment  of  it.  I  gave 
her  a  few  hints;  and  then,  from  her  full  heart,  she 
wrote  a  modestly  beautiful  reply. 

I  took  a  deep  motherly  pride  in  Lina;  she  did 
everything  so  womanly,  with  an  innate  sense  of  pro 
priety  and  fitness.  And,  for  a  young  girl  who  had 
had  no  better  advantages,  she  had  picked  up  a  large 


BERENICE.  271 

store  of  knowledge.  She  had  been  my  pupil  three 
evenings  in  the  week,  since  Berthold  went  away. 
He  did  not  know  it.  She  was  a  teachable  creature, 
and  I  could  do  nothing  else  for  her. 

The  child  Becky  had  entirely  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  her  accident;  and  her  pensive  face  looked, 
at  times,  almost  angelic.  She  had  remarkable  skill 
in  embroidering;  and  the  thin,  taper  fingers  were 
rarely  idle,  though  it  was  evident  that  the  poor, 
shapeless  form  could  never  bear  much  hardship  or 
fatigue.  I  still  kept  busy  during  all  the  days.  Mrs. 
Hersey  went  out  a  great  deal,  and  I  was  her  fre 
quent  companion.  Society  was  a  wholesome  relaxa 
tion  to  both  of  us.  Leon  Blandford  was  established 
on  such  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  master  of  the 
house,  as  set  at  defiance  the  whole  world  of  scandal, 
had  it  dared  to  look  askance  at  so  high  a  mark  as 
Venetia  Hersey. 

Warm  friends  were  gathering  around  the  path  that 
I  was  treading,  and  the  secret  keys  of  many  bosoms 
were  given  in  my  keeping.  I  had  words  of  comfort 
and  hope  for  all  who  suffered ;  and  I  would  not  pause 
to  give  one  thought  to  my  self-hood,  wrangling  with 


272  BERENICE. 

me  always  for  something  it  had  not  —  could  not 
have. 

One  mild  spring  evening  I  took  my  way  alone  to 
the  little  snuggery  where  the  Tollmans  lived.  T  found 
old  Becky  apparently  near  her  departure  for  the  next 
life.  The  sands  of  her  life  were  nearly  spent,  her 
thread  run  to  its  end,  "  the  spinning  almost  done." 
She  could  speak  but  little;  but  she  said,  in  her  old 
way,  ''I've  always  ben  poor;  but  I'm  e'en-a-most 
gone  where  I  never  shall  be  poor  agin.  And  0, 
ma'am !  best  of  all,  I  've  got  faith  now !  I  can't 
say  much  about  it,  but  I  feel  it  here,  comforting  and 
warm,  for  all  the  pain !  " 

A  little  longer  we  sat,  in  the  silent  eventide,  watch 
ing  the  fluttering  pulse ;  and  then,  after  a  faint  strug 
gle,  all  was  still !  Lina  and  Becky  were  orphans 
indeed  !  Sorrowfully  and  long  the  children  gazed  on 
the  face  of  their  dead.  Then  we  laid  her  away  in 
the  house  prepared  for  all  the  living;  and  now  the 
children  must  separate,  for  they  were  too  young  to 
live  alone ;  and  the  knot  that  bound  them  was  un 
tied. 

Mrs.  Murray  would  take  Becky,  who  had   already 


BERENICE.  273 

learned  to  love  her;  and  the  child  had  said,  "Thy 
people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God;'J 
and  it  was  so. 

Mrs.  Hersey  claimed  the  right  of  providing  a  home 
for  Lina  under  her  own  roof;  and  she  became  as  her 
own  child.  She  was  very  fair,  and  her  sweetness  and 
innocence  put  an  end  to  all  the  apprehensions  I  might 
have  felt  from  the  influences  surrounding  her.  in  the 
home  to  which  she  was  adopted. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

IN  a  piazza,  in  street,  where  the  climbing 

vines  were  each  striving  first  to  crown  the  slender 
columns  to  which  they  clung,  stood  Mona  Cresson 
and  her  brother.  A  figure  was  seen  crossing  the 
square.  She  started,  flushed,  grew  pale,  and  clung 
to  a  pillar  for  support.  The  brother  had  recently 
returned  from  India,  where  he  had  been  for  several 
years  a  missionary.  He  knew,  therefore,  but  little 
of  his  sister's  recent  history  or  associates. 

"What  is   this  emotion?"    he   asked. 

"Do  you  see  that  man?"  she  inquired,  as  her 
tremulous  finger  pointed  towards  him. 

"  And  your  heart  beating  the  breath  out  of  you 
at  the  sight.  What  does  it  mean?" 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  the  picture  on  the  wall 
of  my  chamber,  within  ?  Go  now  and  observe  it  anew, 
and  tell  rne  what  the  face  indicates." 


BERENICE.  275 

•  He  went  into  the  apartment,  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  picture,  and  returned.  This  was  his  judg 
ment :  "A  face  of  power, — a  magnetic  face,  but 
calm  and  haughty ;  the  eyer  piercing  but  gentle ; 
a  sardonic  curl  upon  the  upper  lip,  but  the  under 
soft  and  wooing  as  a  woman's;  the  hair  tossed  with 
proud  negligence  from  the  high,  narrow  forehead, 
and  a  resolute  will  evident  in  the  carriage  of  the 
head.  I  should  say,  did  a  woman  give  him  her 
heart  unasked,  '  God  help  her  ! ' 

"  Amen  !     It  is   his   picture, — Leon  Blandford's." 

"Well,    my  sister." 

"  Alas !  my  brother,"  and  her  head  dropped  on 
his  shoulder;  "do  not  call  me  weak.  Were  it  weak 
ness,  I  could  not  suffer  thus.  He  did  love  me;  I 
fear  he  does  no  more." 

"How  did   he  gain  such  an  influence  over  you?" 

"  At  first,  a  similarity  in  our  modes  of  thought 
and  expression  attracted  us  to  each  other ;  for  it 
at  first  commenced  with  him,  despite  the  seeming 
to  the  contrary.  I  could  not  fathom  the  contra 
dictions  of  his  character,  yet  respected  his  genius. 
Respect  ripened  into  a  warmer  feeling.  He  became 


276  BERENICE. 

a  friend ;  and  not  a  friend,  l  an  untamable  and 
beautiful  enemy.'  His  manner  piqued  me,  and  drove 
me  to  petulant  sarcasms  one  moment;  the  next,  I 
admired  his  non-concession  to  my  whims  and  fancies ; 
and,  after  a  time,  in  my  soul  grew  a  reverence  for 
him  as  for  a  superior  being. 

"  I  feared,  then,  for  him !  I  longed  to  guard  him 
from  myself;  and,  in  solitude,  I  said,  Let  it  pass. 
My  parasitical  heart  shall  not  thrust  out  its  ten 
drils  to  fold  and  cling  around  him  for  nourishment. 
Let  them  fall,  rather,  wild,  unsupported,  trailing  in 
the  dust.  I  said  it,  but  did  not  keep  my  words. 
I  am  no  longer  free  in  spirit;  I  am  the  slave  of 
circumstances.  I  would  fold  the  cypress  close  upon 
my  lips,  and,  within  the  shadow  of  a  niche  in  yon 
der  church,  would  watch  his  comings  and  goings 
till  I  turned  to  stone.  There  would  be  more  mean 
ing  in  the  senseless  marble  than  in  this  living, 
breathing  form,  with  its  aimless,  wandering  step.  I 
am  desolate,  now,  and  dead  at  the  heart." 

"Hush,  hush!  my  sister!  Let  me  tell  you  some 
thing  from  my  own  life.  I,  too,  loved,  and  hope 
lessly  :  saw  the  woman  I  worshipped  wedded  to 


BERENICE.  277 

another ;  nay,  more,  pronounced  the  words  that  made 
her  his  with  my  own  lips;  for  I  was  dear  to  both, 
and  the  marriage  benediction  could  not  be  so  pre 
cious  from  another. 

"  I  nerved  myself  to  bear  what  seemed  inevitable. 
You  knew  how  suddenly  I  parted  from  my  native 
land,  ten  years  ago,  though  you  were  but  a  child. 
In  a  foreign  land,  in  missionary  labor,  I  sought  and 
found  that  consolation  which  everything  else  had 
failed  to  yield.  A  'peace  which  passeth  under 
standing  '  is  now  mine. 

"Last  evening  I  dared  to  look  upon  the  face 
and  touch  the  hand  of  the  being  once  so  dear. 
My  victory  over  myself  is  complete  !  I  have  outlived 
my  passion  for  Venetia  !  " 

"Venetia!  You,  too?  Did  you  love  Venetia? 
No ;  yet  there  can  be  but  one  like  that  enslaver  of 
hearts  !  You  must — you  do  mean  Venetia  Hersey  ! '' 

"  Even   so.      It   is   of    her  I   have   spoken." 

"0,  then,  brother,  save  her  —  save  me!  for  I  too 
am  lost,  if " 

"  If    what  ?      Your  wildness  distracts  me,  Mona ! 
Speak  quickly  !      What   mean  you  ?  " 
24 


278  BERENICE. 

"  If  Leon  Blandford  continues  his  daily  attentions 
to  Venetia  Hersey." 

"  Sister,  this  is  a  petty  jealousy.  Who  is  this 
Leon  Blandford?  But  it  does  not  matter;  let  him 
be  who  he  may,  he  could  have  no  control  over 
such  a  woman  as  Venetia  Hersey." 

"  My  brother,  you  do  not  know  his  power.  He 
could  win  an  angel  from  allegiance  to  heaven " 

"As  easily  as  Venetia  Hersey  from  the  path  of 
honor,"  said  the  brother,  giving  a  new  turn  to  the 
sentence. 

"You  do  not  know  all  that  has  been,"  she  re 
joined.  "You  do  not  know  how  much  the  charac 
ter  of  Mr.  Hersey  has  changed  since  you  knew 
him  first;  perhaps  not  changed,  but  showing  his 
real  self.  He  is  not  noble,  —  not  kind  to  Venetia. 
She  did  not  tell  me  so,  but  I  know  it  for  a  truth. 
My  intuitions  are  sharpened  by  experience.  I  cast 
aside  all  maidenly  reserve,  and  tell  you  what  I 
would  not  breathe  to  another. 

"  I  love  Leon  Blandford,  and  it  is  consuming  my 
life  every  hour  I  live,  knowing  him  as  I  do,  to 
see  him  so  much  with  her.  There  is  something  for 


BERENICE.  279 

you  to  do  at  borne.  That  mission  abroad  has  occu 
pied  the  best  part  of  your  life,  -while  your  sister, 
young,  ignorant  of  the  world,  has  been  left  to  blindly 
barter  hers  for  what  looked  fair  and  faultless,  but 
alas,  bitter  at  the  core !  I  have  been  left  without 
a  mother's  love  to  guide  me,  or  a  father's  protect 
ing  care.  Forgive  me  if  grief  makes  me  mad,  and 
I  say  what  I  should  not." 

"Has  not  our  sister  been  a  mother  to  you, 
Mona?" 

"  No  !  no  mother ;  scarcely  a  sister.  What  should 
a  sister  be?  We  have  lived  miles  asunder,  though 
under  the  same  roof.  She  has  been  always  cold  to 
me ;  repelling  my  warm  nature ;  preoccupied  when  I 
needed  her  sympathy  or  aid.  Is  that  a  sister's  love  — 
much  less,  a  mother's  care?" 

'•'•  My  poor  little  Mona.  what  can  I  do  to  soothe 
you,  and  teach  you  how  to  forget  ?  Come !  put  by 
this  despondency.  We  can  be  happy  yet!" 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

IN  the  highways  of  life,  where  splendid  opulence 
and  squalid  misery  jostle  each  other  at  every  step ; 
where  human  affection  and  brotherly  love  are  almost 
strangers  ;  where  selfishness  holds  unquestioned  sway ; 
where  poverty  is  shame,  and  wealth  glory,  there  is 
perhaps  nothing  more  awful  than  scenes  that  meet 
the  eye 

"When  the  blest  seals  that  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke." 

The  spring  went  pleasantly  by,  and  summer  came, 
—  summer,  in  the  city,  when  all  means  of  destruction 
are  rife,  and  prolific  seeds  of  disease  are  vended 
cheap  at  the  markets. 

The  year  for  the  scourge  to  revisit  our  cities  had 
returned,  —  the  fearful  and  mysterious  visitor,  which, 
like  the  wind,  cometh  we  know  not  whence,  and 


BERENICE.  281 

goeth  we  know  not  whither.  Whole  families  were 
carried  off  within  a  few  hours,  and  lay  dead  in  the 
same  house  —  often  in  the  same  room.  The  living 
deserted  the  dying,  and.  in  their  flight,  were  struck 
by  the  pang  that  told  its  own  horror,  and  crept 
anywhere  to  die.  Parents  fled  from  their  children, 
and  children  from  their  parents.  Few  had  the  hardi 
hood  to  brave  the  pestilence  that  walketh  in  dark 
ness,  the  destruction  that  waste th  at  noonday. 

I  had  staid  in  the  city  to  take  charge  of  Mrs. 
Hersey's  house.  The  family  were  gone  with  the 
Cressons  on  a  long  journey  to  the  Lakes ;  and,  for 
all  the  terror  around  me,  I  felt  perfectly  well,  and 
would  not  quit  my  post.  I  went  into  the  infected 
districts  as  fearlessly  as  the  physician,  and  found  a 
sorrowful  pleasure  in  lending  my  aid  to  the  dis 
tressed  and  suffering. 

Among  Mrs.  Hersey's  pensioners,  was  one  old  man, 
who  had  cursed  his  only  child,  and  driven  her  out 
in  her  disgrace  to  perish.  She  had  lived  a  life  of 
sin.  For  her  there  was  no  redemption  in  this  life. 
Consumption  had  stricken  her.  She  was  hastening 
rapidly  to  her  end.  She  heard  that  her  father  was 
24* 


282  BERENICE. 

seized  with  the  prevailing  epidemic,  and,  true  to  the 
instincts  of  her  nature,  though  so  long  perverted, 
she  dragged  herself  to  beg  his  blessing,  and  take  a 
last  look  of  a  father's  face.  But  he  would  not  heed 
her,  and  died  with  unforgiving  words  upon  his  lips. 
What  a  fearful  passion  is  hatred  when  it  can  only 
be  wrung  from  the  soul  with  its  last  gasp  !  The 
girl  looked  wildly  on  him  as  the  features  fell,  dis 
torted  by  death ;  and,  with  a  piercing  shriek,  sank 
beside  him.  The  breath  of  the  plague  need  not 
overpower  her  with  its  pestiferous  influences.  She 
was  levelled  by  a  keener  dart.  The  father's  curse 
had  killed  her. 

For  two  weeks  the  scorching  sun  had  distilled 
the  hot  vapors  of  disease  from  the  teeming  city, 
which  the  night  dews  re-distilled,  laden  with  pesti 
lence  and  death,  when,  one  morning,  I  received  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Murray,  which  ran  as  follows  : 

"DEAR  BERENICE:  —  Berthold  St.  Cyr  and  his 
father  are  expected  soon  at  our  house  in  the  city. 
Mr.  St.  Cyr's  health  renders  a  voyage  to  Europe  his 


BERENICE.  283 

last  hope:  and  a  letter  came  to  Mr.  Murray's  count 
ing-room,  more  than  a  fortnight  ago,  announcing  their 
intention  of  visiting  us,  which  was  delayed  several 
days.  As  soon  as  received,  we  telegraphed  Berthold, 
bidding  him  make  himself  entirely  at  home  at  our 
house  as  long  as  he  chose  to  stay  in  the  city,  and  we 
would  meet  him  there. 

"  Mr.  Murray  is  too  ill  for  us  to  come  to  town 
immediately ;  and,  dear  friend,  I  am  necessitated  to  beg 
of  thee  to  make  the  house  comfortable  for  our  invalid 
friend  and  his  son  during  their  stay. 

"I  feel  more  anxious  than  I  should,  from  the  alarm 
ing  accounts  we  get  of  the  havoc  the  cholera  is  making ; 
but  they  may  be  exaggerated. 

"John  says,  'We  are  asking  a  great  deal  of  Bere 
nice  ; '  and  I  know  it  will  be  a  severe  trial  to  thee. 
But  it  is  impossible  to  do  otherwise.  We  cannot  suffer 
them  to  come  and  go  uncared  for;  and  thy  strong 
heart  will  be  equal  to  it. 

"  Oblige  thy  friend,  MARY  MURRAY." 

What  a  sorrow  was  here  !  A  thousand  misgivings 
assailed  me.  Perhaps  he  had  already  arrived  ;  perhaps 


284  BERENICE. 

the  fatal  sickness  was  upon  him,  and  I  shall  never 
see  him  alive  !  There  was  little  time  for  reflection. 
I  hurried  to  the  house  of  the  Hurrays  to  know  the 
worst;  but  at  the  door  I  paused,  questioning  the  del 
icacy,  the  propriety,  of  thus  ushering  myself  unbidden 
to  his  presence. 

I  had  wilfully  renounced  him,  yet,  all  the  whileT 
my  soul  bowed  down  in  worship  of  him,  but  afar  off, 
as  I  might  have  worshipped  an  angel.  The  peculiarity 
of  my  relations  with  him  raised  a  doubt  of  the  propri 
ety  of  complying  with  Mary  Murray's  request  at  such 
a  cost.  But  my  anxiety  got  the  better  of  my  judg 
ment.  I  had  a  latch-key,  and  let  myself  in  without 
ringing,  and  proceeded  directly  to  the  room  where  I 
expected  to  find  the  housekeeper.  She  was  not  there ; 
and  I  presently  found  a  paper,  directed  to  Mary  Mur 
ray,  stating  that  she  had  been  seized  with  the  first 
symptoms  of  the  contagion ;  and,  not  able  to  get  any 

person  to  take  care  of  her,  Dr.  C advised  her 

removal  to  the  hospital.  She  said  the  St.  Cyrs  had 
come,  but  were  going  to  a  hotel  that  day. 

I  began  to  breathe  more  freely.  Several  large 
travelling  trunks  stood  in  the  hall.  His  initials  were 


BERENICE.  285 

on  the  covers.  How  dear  those  letters  seemed  to  me  ! 
Were  they  gone,  or  still  there  ?  I  should  know  pres 
ently.  I  passed  up  the  broad^  staircase ;  all  seemed 
hushed  as  the  grave.  I  listened ;  not  in  vain.  There 
was  a  faint  sound  as  of  some  persons  stepping  care 
fully  in  that  first  chamber.  Timidly  I  entered  the 
darkened  room ;  and  there  a  shrouded  figure  in  grave- 
clothes,  stretched  on  the  bed,  arrested  my  eye,  and 
benumbed  my  power  of  motion.  But  for  a  moment ;  with 
a  great  cry,  I  staggered  toward  the  ghastly  vision,  and 
laid  my  hand  upon  the  covering  concealing  the  face 
I  longed  yet  dreaded  to  behold.  The  ice-cold  feel  of 
death  sent  the  blood  back  to  my  heart.  I  was  powerless. 

At  the  instant  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  arm, —  a  living 
hand.  I  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  joy  as  I  recog 
nized  Berthold  at  my  side.  But  the  flush  of  fever 
stained  his  cheek,  and  burned  in  his  throbbing  veins. 
I  pointed  to  the  dead  body. 

"My  father,  Berenice  —  you  are  come  in  time  to 
bury  my  poor  father !  He  died  this  morning.  A 
nurse  will  be  here  within  the  hour,  to  attend  me,  for 
I,  too,  am  stricken  ;  but,  dearest,  don't  leave  me  ?  I 
must  lie  down." 


286  BERENICE. 

He  could  not  stand ;  and  the  undertakers,  who  were 
engaged  in  preparing  the  body  for  its  final  disposition, 
stepped  forward  and.  assisted  him  to  another  room. 
And  then  I  saw  how  he  must  have  suffered,  and  how 
ill  he  really  was. 

Leave  him  I  No  !  not  if  the  whole  world  aban 
doned  me  would  I  leave  him,  in  sickness  and  suffering, 
to  the  care  of  hirelings.  I  took  my  place  by  his 
sick  pillow  for  weal  or  woe.  I  should  watch  with 
him,  tend  him,  pray  for  him,  till  a  new  life  should 
steal  back  from  the  gates  of  death,  and  he  should  be 
reborn  the  child  of  strength. 

The  hours  of  anguish  were  endured  by  him  cour 
ageously.  The  crisis  passed,  and  hope  dawned  with 
the  third  day's  light,  and  did  not  fade  with  evening, 
But  he  was  very  feeble  for  many  days. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

As  he  grew  better  we  talked  of  all  things, —  the 
past,  the  present,  and  our  uncertain  future.  Those 
long,  delightful,  precious  talks  !  And  then  he  told  me 
how,  in  his  zeal  for  his  father's  restoration,  he  had 
hurried  on.  He  had  hoped  to  see  me  there,  just  as  it 
had  happened.  But  he  did  not  once  consider  the  risk 
a  stranger  incurred  by  coming  to  an  infected  citj. 
He  felt  alarmed  immediately  on  his  arrival  by  the 
debilitated  state  into  which  the  journey  had  thrown 
his  father,  and  had  feared  they  would  be  unable  to 
proceed  on  their  intended  tour.  He  bowed  his  head 
on  his  bosom,  and  murmured.  "It  is  all  done,  now;" 
and  for  a  while  we  were  silent. 

"Berenice!"     How  his  dear  voice  thrilled  me! 

"Do  you  stand  just  where  you  did?  Has  there 
been  no  favorable  change,  from  which  I  might  catch 
one  gleam  of  hope  ?  " 


288  BERENICE. 

"  No,  no ;  none  !  I  cannot  even  listen  to  you, 
Berthold,  if  you  speak  thus  !  " 

My  voice  trembled,  for  I  felt  that  I  stood  on  the 
brink  of  danger.  I  could  not  close  my  eyes.  His 
dear  face,  wan  with  pain  and  suffering,  the  charm  of 
every  word  he  uttered,  the  pleading  looks  of  his  deep 
dark  eyes,  the  tender  appeal  of  every  motion,  as  he 
folded  my  hand  between  his  own,  his  recent  danger, — all 
endeared  him  to  me  a  thousand  fold.  My  heart  was 
melting  within  me.  Away,  in  its  quiet  recesses,  was  a 
painful  consciousness  of  what  might  have  been,  and 
of  what  might  be.  But  a  colder  monitor  whispered 
what  must  be.  I  was  faint  from  the  effort  at  calm 
ness. 

I  strove  to  go,  but  he  detained  me,  and  begged  my 
pardon  for  the  unintentional  pain  he  saw  he  had  in 
flicted.  I  granted  it,  and  was  again  silent.  Berthold 
spoke  again:  "Berenice,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"  Sail  for  Europe,  as  you  first  intended,"  I  replied. 
"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  go  !  Do  not  stay  within  the 
region  where  there  is  a  possibility  of  our  meeting.  Go  ! 
for  my  sake  if  not  for  your  own  !  " 

I  can  scarcely  recall  those  passionate  scenes  without 


BERENICE.  289 

living  over  their  experience.     It  is  a  painful  pleasure. 
Their  memory  is  most  sweet  and  sacred. 

Berthold's  voice  was  husky  and  deep  as  he  said,  "  I 
will  go,  for  your  sake,  as  soon  as  I  am  strong  enough, 
and  trust  to  happier  auspices  for  our  next  meeting. 
Grant  me  this  in  return, —  nay,  I  will  not  be  denied  !  — 
you  will  answer  my  letters  if  your  heart  so  dictates." 

I    promised,    said    "  good-night,"    and    fled    to   my 
chamber  to  pray  for  him.  and  me. 
25 


Y  CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

DAY  by  day  he  grew  strong ;  strong  to  combat  with 
the  world,  stronger  to  wrestle  with  his  hopeless  passion. 
I  rejoiced,  and  yet  I  sorrowed ;  for  I  felt  that  the 
threads  of  our  life  were  woven  together,  I  dared  scarce 
acknowledge  how  closely.  I  knew  that  the  hour  of 
separation  drew  nigh,  but  folded  my  heart  in  its  pride, 
and  smiled  a  meaningless  smile. 

The  day  came,  the  hour,  the  moment.  He  folded 
me  to  his  heart  in  a  silent  embrace,  and  he  was  gone. 
A  blessed  unconsciousness  saved  me  for  a  few  hours 
the  pain  of  feeling;  and,  long  before  I  awoke,  the 
ship  that  bore  him  was  drifting  down  the  harbor. 
When  it  was  too  late  I  would  have  given  worlds  to 
recall  him  but  for  a  moment. 

Mary  and  John  Murray  !  What  could  I  have  done 
without  them,  then?  They  were  everything  to  me;  and 
the  child,  Becky,  nursed  me  most  assiduously. 


BERENICE.  291 

By  the  time  I  was  fairly  able  to  attend  to  my 
long-neglected  duties,  most  of  my  friends  had  come 
home  from  their  summer  rambles ;  but,  as  it  was  more 
quiet  at  the  Hurrays',  I  chose  to  remain  with  them, 

and  many  warm   congratulations  poured  in  for  my  safe 

* 

recovery  from  illness ;  which  was  caused,  Mrs.  Hersey 
said,  by  my  staying  in  town  all  summer. 

There  was  a  marked  change  in  the  face  of  my  sweet 
Lina.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  had  passed  through 
some  kind  of  ordeal.  It  had  intensified  the  expression 
of  her  intellectual  face.  But  I  knew  I  should  not  be 
long  without  her  confidence,  and  forbore  remark  or 
question. 

Mona  came,  too,  to  see  me.  The  mock  gayety  of 
her  manner  pained  me.  Her  laugh  sounded  hollow, 
and  her  pale  cheek  and  fire-lit  eye  told  a  tale  of  con 
test  between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit,  with  which  I  could 
readily  sympathize. 

Poor  Mona!  She  had  once  dearly  loved  Venetia. 
She  looked  on  her  now  as  though  she  could  anatomize 
her,  artery  by  artery,  to  know  if  there  lurked  within 
her  blood  a  quickening  power  that  answered  to  Bland- 
ford's  name.  Venetians  secrets  were  kept  even  from  me. 


292  BERENICE. 

Mr.  Cresson  came,  with  his  sister.  I  turned,  to 
observe  him  more  closely  as  he  stood  earnestly  speak 
ing  to  Lina ;  and  then  and  there  I  read  the  secret 
of  the  change  in  our  fair  protegee. 

" Do  you  return  soon  to  India,  Mr.  Cresson?" 

"Yes,  madam;  but  not  directly.  Not  until  No 
vember." 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  Mona,  interrupting  the 
conversation,  "of  me  for  a  missionary,  Berenice? 
Observe :  '  The  following  paragraph  we  copy  from  a 
leading  journal  of  the  city  of : 

"'Miss  Mona  Cresson,  daughter  of  the  late  Col. 
Theodore  Cresson,  of  the  United  States  navy,  will 
sail  for  Calcutta,  in  the  barque  Clinton,  in  company 

with  her  brother,  missionary  at  .  We  hear  it 

confidently  stated  the  sister  intends  to  spend  her  days 
in  the  missionary  service. '  " 

"Mona,  pray  don't  jest  on  a  subject  so  serious," 
said,  or  rather  sighed,  her  brother.  "I  would  you 
might  be  persuaded,  in  your  own  mind,  that  such 
a  course  were  best,  and  that  we  might  be  no  more 
parted.  But  nothing  could  induce  me  to  attempt  to 
influence  you  on  so  important  a  subject." 


BERENICE.  293 

Mona  smiled  gayly,  and  shook  her  finger  at  him 
in  her  old  arch  way.  "  See  that  you  don't  .influence 
anybody  unconsciously,  brother,  laying  yourself  lia 
ble  to  be  accused  of  the  crime  of  inveigling  young 
women  across  the  seas.  I  shall  believe  you  zealous 
of  being  called,  not  a  fisher  of  men,  but  of  women." 

"  There  is  no  controlling  Mona's  spirits,  some 
times." 

"No  controlling  my  moods  ever,  is  there,  broth 
er?" 

There  was  an  effort  in  her  badinage  now  that  gave 
me  uneasiness,  and  made  me  wish  her  away.  We 
were  not  in  harmony.  Lina  seemed  disconcerted,  and 
held  no  part  in  the  conversation.  The  brother  and 
sister  shortly  took  their  leave,  and  I  wras  alone  with 
Lina.  She  came  and  sat  down  by  me,  and  laid  her 
head  in  my  lap,  and  cried  like  a  baby,  without  any 
apparent  cause.  I  felt  as  though  I  could  cry  my 
self,  but  knew  it  would  not  do. 

"Nervous  little  child  that  it  is,"  said  I.  "How 
does  she  expect  to  meet  what  is  before  her,  if 
she  cries  for  nothing,  only  because  a  chord  has 
been  rudely  touched,  that  was  not  quite  ready  for 


294  BERENICE. 

vibration?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  go, 
Lina?"  . 

"I  could  not  decide  on  anything  without  you.  I 
think  I  see  my  duty  clear  before  me.  I  am  warmly 
attached  to  Mr.  Cresson;  and  I  don't  know  how  much 
my  afiectional  nature  may  influence  my  theological  per 
ceptions.  Many  say,  in  considering  this  subject,  that 
I  am  giving  up  a  great  deal.  But  I  only  feel  that 
it  would  be  giving  up  everything  not  to  go  with 
him.  For,  although  Mrs.  Hersey  is  a  mother  to  me, 
still  my  relation  to  her  is  merely  accidental,  so  far 
as  human  events  may  seem  so.  I  am  not  attracted 
to  .the  life  I  find  in  their  home.  If  it  were  not 
for  my  lonely  little  sister,  it  would  be '  happiness  to 
me  to  be  Mr.  Cresson' s  wife,  and  go  with  him  to 
India.  But  how  can  I  leave  her?" 

I  replied,  "He  that  loveth  father  or  mother  more 
than  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me;  and  he  that  loveth 
son  or  daughter  more  than  me,  is  not  worthy  of 
me;  and  he  that  taketh  not  his  cross  and  followeth 
after  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me." 

"I  will  be  worthy,"  she  said,  looking  upward,  with 
the  holy  trust,  beaming  in  her  face,  that  from  Heaven 


BERENICE.  295 

alone  could  come  the  strength  that  should  make  her 
worthy.  "But,"  she  resumed,  "I  think  it  would  be 
easier  to  leave  father  or  mother,  or  many  friends, 
than  this  one  poor  sister,  the  only  one  I  can  claim 
kindred  with  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

"Becky  is  perfectly  happy  where  she  is,"  I  re 
plied  ;  ' '  cared  for  in  the  kindest  manner.  She  might 
not  be  more  comfortable  in  your  own  house,  if  you 
were  to  marry  here  and  take  her  to  your  home ;  for, 
who  knows  what  heart-burnings  might  come,  when 
you,  the  darling,  cherished  wife  of  some  noble  heart, 
could  give  the  pale,  deformed  girl,  but  a  lesser  por 
tion  of  your  affections?  I  say,  we  know  not  what 
might  be.  Hardship  and  self-denial  are  not  new  to 
you.  Your  early  trials,  and  your-  deep  religious 
nature,  seem  to  have  fitted  you  peculiarly  for  a  mis 
sionary's  wife.  You  have  youth  and  health;  and  with 
such  a  man  as  Mr.  Cresson  your  friends  need  not 
fear  to  trust  you.  I  shall  be  sad  to  lose  you;  but 
my  loss  will  be  another's  gain.  God  bless  you !  " 
Mrs.  Hersey  objected  strenuously,  for  a  long  time, 

k 

to  parting   with   Lina.     Her   good   heart   was  pained, 
for  she   had  meant  to-  make   her  very  happy.     But, 


296  BERENICE. 

when  she  saw  her  earnest,  prayerful  hope,  and  steadi 
ness  of  purpose,  she  gave  her  sanction,  and  did  all 
in  her  power  to  prove  the  heartiness  of  her  good 
feelings  towards  the  child  of  her  adoption. 

There  was  a  great  stir  with  the  preparations  for 
the  bridal.  Lina  had  endeared  herself  to  every  per 
son  who  knew  her;  and  friendly  little  gold  thim 
bles  pVesented  themselves,  for  something  to  do  for  the 
bride,  from  all  quarters.  There  was  such  a  bustle, 
and  all  so  busy,  that  one  got  no  time  to  be  sorry 
for  hurrying  her  away.  Delicate  tokens  of  friend 
ship  came  every  day  —  presents  to  the  bride  and 
groom.  Lina  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  she  came 
to  be  of  so  much  importance,  but  was  too  happy  in 
her  love  to  be  much  confused. 

Becky  could  not  understand  how  it  had  all  hap 
pened  that  her  sister  Lina  was  to  marry  a  mis 
sionary,  and  go  so  far  away.  But  the  child  under 
stood  that  there  was  no  remedy  for  it,  and  resigned 
herself  to  the  certainty. 

Mona  Cresson  dashed  across  the  scene  occasionally, 
in  a  serio-comic  vein.  Dazzling,  eccentric  creature,  I 
trembled  for  her  without  knowing  why,  she  was  so 


BERENICE.  297 

meteoric  in  her  general  movements,  and,  in  her  more 
quiet  hours,  so  strangely  spiritual.  She  came  little 
to  Mrs.  Hersey's,  —  never  when  there  would  be  the 
slightest  probability  of  meeting  Leon  Blandford.  Had 
she  conquered  her  passion ;  and  did  that  quiet  avoid 
ance  betoken  self-mastery  and  high-heartedness,  which 
would  be  a  safeguard  against  vain  hopes? 

Lina  knew  that  Mr.  Cresson  disliked  display,  and 
stipulated  with  Mrs.  Hersey  that,  rather  than  have 
her  run  away,  or  be  married  in  church,  the  wed 
ding  should  be  conducted  in  as  simple  a  style  as 
possible ;  and  it  was  finally  concluded  that  only  the 
intimate  friends  should  be  present.  She  chose  but 
one  bridesmaid  —  Mona  Cresson ;  and  Mona  sug 
gested  that  Mr.  Blandford  should  be  groomsman. 
What  strange  freak  had  come  over  her? 

They  were  to  be  married  within  one  week  of  sail 
ing  for  India,  and  the  few  last  days  were  set  apart 
to  visit  an  aunt  of  Mr.  Cresson' s,  residing  in  Wash 
ington.  Mona,  too,  it  was  understood,  would  be  of 
the  party,  provided  her  brother  and  Lina  would  ap 
propriate  to  her  their  last  evening  in  town.  She 
would  give  a  fete  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  He 


298  BERENICE. 

gave  his  consent.  We  were  all  invited  accordingly, 
and  Leon  Blandford,  in  his  capacity  of  groomsman, 
was  obliged  to  attend  her  on  .that  evening. 

Mona  seemed  cheerful  in  the  presence  of  her 
friends  and  family;  and  her  brother,  occupied  with 
his  new-found  happiness,  saw  but  little  of  her;  and 
when  they  were  together  she  appeared  anxious  to 
avoid  all  allusion  to  the  exciting  theme  of  that  one 
conversation,  in  which  she  had  so  rashly  disclosed  the 
secret  of  her  heart  to  him.  Indeed,  she  had  con 
fessed  to  him  that  she  was  at  fault;  that  her  im 
agination  was  diseased;  that  she  was  nervous  and 
disturbed  without  a  reasonable  cause,  and  begged  his 
pardon  for  troubling  him  with  such  foolish  woman's 
fancies;  that,  as  no  one  suspected  the  state  of  affairs 
between  herself  and  Leon,  but  called  their  present 
disunion  a  lovers'  quarrel,  it  was  best  that  he  should 
forget  all  her  wildness  and  complainings,  and  let 
matters  take  their  course ;  and,  in  his  devotion  to 
the  young  creature  so  soon  to  be  his  bride,  he  had 
almost  forgotten  to  notice  his  sister's  changeful  moods. 
Besides,  she  kept  out  of  sight  a  good  portion  of  the 
time,  refusing  to  see  or  be  seen. 


BERENICE.  299 

He,  whom  I  had  named  in  a  whisper  "my  be 
loved,"  had  written  to  me  from  Europe.  This  letter 
lay  upon  my  heart,  close  to  the  loneliness  within  it. 
The  sweet  memory  I  nursed  in  silence  and  darkness; 
for  who  could  share  or  understand  my  pain?  But 
when  his  well-remembered  glances  streamed  into  that 
darkness,  they  were  like  fire  from  heaven,  and  lit 
the  whole  welkin  of  thought,  and  gladdened  my  spirit 
with  light. 

The  mail-days,  which  brought  his  letters,  were  my 
only  holidays.  But  one  short  year  ago,  and  he  was 
here  j  and  so  much  of  life  had  been  crowded  into 
that  short  space !  The  things  of  to-day  are  merely 
lessons,  hardly  learned,  but  nothing  when  once  ac 
quired. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE  wedding  went  off  very  successfully.  The  Rev. 

Dr.  T performed  the  service  simply,  and  with  an 

extempore  grace  that  charmed  everybody. 

Lina  was  beautiful ;  Mona  superb ;  and  the  gentle 
men  looked  well  as  the  formal  cut  of  a  dress-coat 
permits  a  man  to  look.  We  were  a  very  merry 
party,  considering  the  solemnity  of  the  circumstances 
and  the  occasion. 

Little  Becky,  with  her  spiritual  face,  —  her  distor 
tions  of  figure  concealed  by  drapery,  skilfully  arranged 
by  Mrs.  Hersey's  own  hands,  —  like  some  wandering 
sprite  from  another  sphere,  glided  from  room  to  room, 
and  was  very  light-hearted  about  losing  Lina. 

Mr.  Norton  was  in  excellent  humor,  and  it  seemed 
he  would  never  tire  of  devising  questions  for  that 
strange  child  to  answer. 

Mr.    Hersey,    the    man    of   etiquette,    was    really 


BERENICE.  301 

genial,  for  a  rarity  in  his  own  house.  Mary  Mur 
ray,  in  her  Quaker  dress,  looked  modest  and  pure 
as  the  lily  of  the  valley.  The  cut  of  her  gar 
ments  enhanced  the  matronly  elegance  of  her  finely- 
developed  form,  while  an  unconscious  repose  rested 
on  every  feature  of  her  face,  —  the  sign  and  seal 
of  inward  peace.  Her  worthy  consort  stood  beside 
her  in  silent  adoration;  for  John  Murray  did  some 
times  worship  the  creature  inadvertently.  And,  if 
idolatry  were  ever  allowable,  John  Murray  might 
well  be  pardoned. 

Once  we  stood  all  together  for  a  few  moments, 
—  John,  Mary,  Becky,  Lina,  and  myself;  and  Becky 
said, 

"If  only  Mr.  Berthold  St.  Cyr  were  here, — our 
first  best  friend!  Don't  you  wish  it,  Lina?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  if  it  had  been  possible.  I 
received  a  long  letter  from  him  to-day,  blessing  me 
so  warmly !  I  almost  feel  his  presence." 

Each  of  the  group  said  something  good  and  noble 
of  him.  It  was  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  hear 
his  praises  from  such  true  hearts !  I  could  only- 
say, 

26 


302  BERENICE. 

"  I  hope  he  is  well  and  happy,  and  has  found 
my  dear  friend,  Ruth  Nelby,  at  Leipsic." 

"Did   he   speak   of  her   in  your  letter,  Lina?" 

"No;  it  is  dated  at  Leipsic,  but  it  was  written 
immediately  on  his  arrival  there.  He  probably  had 
not  met  her." 

Mona  came  to  say  "  good-night,"  and  playfully 
reminded  Lina  that  she  should  be  the  belle  of  the 
feast  to-morrow  evening. 

Soon  after,  we  parted,  and  I  returned  to  my  dear 
est  home  with  Hurrays. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

0i 

MONA  CRESSON'S  fete  was  arranged  on  a  scale 
of  great  splendor.  The  fair  hostess  was  surpass 
ingly  beautiful,.  She  received  her  guests — just  nine 
in  number  —  in  the  most  quaint  and  singular  fashion. 
She  wore  purple  drapery  over  a  full  linen  under- 
dress  of  the  most  delicate  texture.  Her  symmetrical 
arms  were  bare  nearly  to  the  shoulder,  and  her  hair 
was  dressed  in  a  style  of  careless  elegance.  Her 
face  gleamed  with  a  starry  brightness  that  chilled 
the  beholder  even  when  he  would  admire. 

Mona  had  never  been  so  resplendent  as  that  night, 
in  her  unadorned  loveliness.  But  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  face,  fearful,  incomprehensible  ;  some 
thing  suggestive  of  an  impassable  distance  between 
her  and  us.  And  when  Lina,  full  of  warm-hearted 
tenderness  for  the  sister  of  her  husband,  pressed 
towards  her  for  the  kiss  she  well  might  claim,  Mona 


304  BERENICE. 

held  her  off  with  such  an  icy  hand  and  so  chilling 
a  manner,  Lina  shrunk  timidly  away. 

The  table  displayed  luxury,  good  taste,  and  refine 
ment.  The  banquet-room  was  draped  and  curtained 
with  the  most  elegant  materials,  and  the  rarest 
flowers  were  profusely  scattered  everywhere.  But 
everywhere  might  be  seen,  among  the  sweetest  and 
most  beautiful,  a  sprig  of  cypress  —  mournful  em 
blem  of  the  pall  and  bier.  It  would  have  sent  a 
thrill  through  every  soul  that  had  chanced  to  inter 
pret  the  symbolical  language  of  those  exquisite 
flowers,  all  enfolding  the  fatal  cypress. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Cresson  and  myself  were  the  only 
ones,  besides  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  who  under 
stood  them  at  all.  And  yet  we  saw  not  the  end. 
Once,  during  the  short  time  we  were  together,  his 
troubled  looks  drew  me  to  his  side  •  and,  in  his 
particularly  low,  musical  voice,  he  said,  hurriedly, 

"  Do  you  observe  my  sister,  and  all  this  array 
of  speechless  messages,  which  I  perceive  you  read? 
I  tremble  for  her  reason !  " 

"  Yet  she  looks  calm  and  self-collected,"  I  replied, 
"and  more  beautiful  than  ever  before." 


BERENICE.  305 

"I  fear  it  is  the  deceitful  calm  that  presages,  the 
breaking  up  of  nature's  controlling  forces  in  my  sister's 
mind ;  —  the  calm  which  precedes  the  whirlwind.  I 
feel  inexpressibly  alarmed  for  her.  I  wish  my 
departure  were  not  at  hand.  God  help  her !  She 
is  suffering  as  woman  only  can." 

We  were  bidden  to  our  seats  at  the  sumptuous 
table.  Mona  beckoned  Blandford  to  a  seat  at  her 
left  hand,  Mrs.  Hersey  next  him,  and  her  husband, 
whose  presence  was  secured  for  this  occasion  by  a  spe 
cial  command  from  Mona,  —  a  sort  of  subpoena  from 
a  court  which  he  dared  not  disobey,  —  sat  beside 
his  wife.  On  Mona's  right  was  the  bride,  like  a 
fresh-blown  blush  rose.  The  bridegroom,  Mr.  Cresson, 
sat  next  her,  and  the  child  Becky,  like  a  white 
dove,  nestled  beside  him.  Then  came  our  Quaker 
friends,  in  their  beautiful  simplicity  of  manner,  min 
gling  with  the  world,  but  not  of  the  world.  My 
seat  was  by  friend  Murray.  Then  came  the  immedi 
ate  household,  —  Mona's  elder  sister,  her  husband, 
and  a  son,  a  noble  boy,  dressed  as  a  page,  to  attend 
Aunt  Mona.  The  table  was  full,  but  the  delicacies 
were  partaken  of  but  sparingly.  Mona  declared  we 
26* 


306  BERENICE. 

were  the  most  unsocial  set  of  beings  she  ever  saw 
together^  and  said,  with  an  attempt  at  gayety, 

"  One   would   think  you   were  at   a   funeral  feast." 

I  observed  her  frequently,  during  the  repast,  con 
sulting  a  tiny  watch,  set  in  the  clasp  of  her  rich 
bracelet,  the  only  ornament  she  wore.  The  clusters 
of  many-colored  gems  betrayed  the  giver  to  those 
skilled  in  the  language  of  precious  stones : 

"  LEON  TO  MONA." 

Who  might  guess  the  history  of  that  gift?  It 
clung  to  the  fair,  round,  polished  arm,  a  constant 
remembrancer  of  the  hand  that  clasped  it.  Perhaps 
that  moment  she  had  hoped  all,  risked  all,  foregone 
all,  in  one  wild  flash  of  blinding  passion.  Then, 
wakening  slowly  from  that  bewildering  dream,  and  look 
ing  with  strained  eyes  on  the  reality  of  the  present, 
fear  and  trembling  shook  her  soul  —  fierce  despair 
at  his  neglect.  Alien  from  his  affection,  she  was 
forever  lost !  —  lost  to  herself !  Could  this  courtly 
man  sitting  beside  her,  now  smiling  up  into  her 
deep  eyes,  and  for  that  hour,  at  least,  ready  to 
swear  allegiance  to  her  —  could  he  have  done  such 
a  thing?  For  if  man  ever  did  homage  to  woman 


BERENICE.  807 

in  momentary  self-forgetfulness,  he  did  certainly  now 
to  Mona. 

Alas,  too  late  !  A  few  hours  ago,  one  pressure 
of  the  hand  like  that,  those  few  dear  words  he 
was  whispering  soft  and  low,  audible  only  to  her, 
would  have  met  a  happier  answer. 

"  I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  Mona.  Forget, 
forgive !  Save  me,  and  take  me  back  to  live  in 
the  true  heart  I  have  so  deeply  wronged.  And, 
dearest,  fix  our  marriage  day.  I  cannot  live  with 
out  you  !  " 

"Mine!  mine!  all  mine  at  last!  But,  0,  too 
late  ! " 

"Too  late!' 

A  livid  paleness  overspreads  her  face ;  great  drops 
of  sweat  stand  on  her  forehead  •  that  purple  hue 
beneath  her  eyes,  —  all  tell  a  tale  •  her  words  do  not 
deny. 

"  0,  Mona  !    what   does   this   mean  ?     Speak  !  " 

Her  writhing  lips  pronounced  the  word,  which  every 
line  of  her  distorted  face  confirmed —  "  Death!  " 

"One  moment,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause  — 
"when  this  agony  is  past — I'll  —  tell  you  more!" 


308  BERENICE. 

All  stood  in  silence  to  catch  her  whispered 
words. 

She    spoke   again. 

"  The  sharpest  pang  is  over!  Forgive  me  all  — 
dear  ones  —  the  shock  I  have  given  you.  And 
may  God  forgive  me,  as  I  do  all  who  have  ever 
wronged  me.  I  could  not  live  longer !  I  have  taken 
poison  ! 

"You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  it  was  vain  to  give 
a  banquet  in  my  very  death-hour.  Don't  chide  me 
for  that.  I  am  in  a  giving  mood  !  Hear  me,  sister, 

—  brother :    I  am  dressed  for  burial !     Let  me   not 
be   disrobed !     It  is  my  last  request  to  you  !     Leave 
me  alone — with  Leon  —  for  my  time   is  short!" 

The  wishes  of  the  dying  girl  were  sacred.  Slowly 
and  mournfully,  one  by  one,  we  left  them  there 
together. 

What  passed  at  that  last  interview  of  the  wronger 
with  the  wronged,  none  ever  knew. 

It  might  have   been  ten  minutes  —  may   be    more 

—  when  Leon   called.     He   was  kneeling  beside   her, 
and  her  head  lay   placidly   on    his    shoulder.       The 
pain  was  all  over,  and  soon  her  last  sigh    fluttered 


BERENICE.  309 

from  her  lips.  Leon  yielded  up  that  dead  form, 
and  went  out  a  changed  man.  Years  had  done 
their  work  on  him  within  the  limits  of  an  hour. 
Life  had  lost  its  charm  for  him,  and  Mona's  secret 
lay  heavy  on  his  heart. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

*« '  Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial,  that  wilfully  seeks 
her  own  salvation  ?  ' 

"  « I  tell  thee  that  she  is  !  Therefore,  make  her  grave,  straight. 
The  crowner  hath  set  on  her,  and  finds  it  Christian  burial.' 

" '  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on  't?  If  this  had  not  been  a  gentle 
woman,  she  would  have  been  buried  out  of  Christian  burial. '  " 

"I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  ministering  angel  shall  my  sister  be 
When  thou  liest  howling." 

THEY  buried  her  in  her  purple  and  fine  linen. 
They  made  her  grave  in  the  full  sunlight,  as  she 
desired,  and  the  Greenwood  murmurs  are  pleasantly 
sounding  over  foe  spot.  Peace  be  to  the  ashes  of 
her,  who  we  will  hope  had,  through  suffering, 
found  a  deeper  religion  to  soothe  her  last  moments 
than  that  taught  in  human  creeds  ! 

The  manner  of  her  passing  away  never  transpired 


BERENICE.  311 

to  the  world.  That  it  was  sudden  and  terrible, 
and  that  she  was  gone,  was  all  that  could  be  known 
by  those  who,  had  they  been  entrusted  with  the  real 
facts,  would  have  loaded  her  name  with  reproach 
and  condemnation.  She  dared  rather  approach  the 
presence  of  the  heavenly  Father  unbidden,  than  meet 
the  words  of  opprobrium  and  shame  from  human 
lips.  We  may  pity  and  deplore  her,  but  it  is 
written,  "  Judgment  is  mine ;  I  will  repay,  saith 
the  Lord." 

And  through  the  dusky  and  motionless  past,  I 
saw  myself  a  child,  in  the  old-fashioned  square  pew, 
in  the  meeting-house  at  Lealands.  And  the  loved 
voice  of  our  good  pastor  sounded  refreshingly  on 
my  dreaming  ears  as  it  seemed  to  utter  the  merci 
ful  words  of  Holy  Writ. 

Painfully  my  mind  reverted  to  another  life  that 
had  rushed  uncalled  from  the  shores  of  time,  drift 
ing  out  to  the  eternal  isles ;  —  yet  it  seemed  like 
a  dream  far  away  in  the  ages  of  remotest  time. 

These  two  pictures  of  life,  with  their  interests, 
passions,  chances,  and  pitiable  failures,  looked  mock 
ingly  on  me  from  out  of  the  past.  Bat  Clotho 


312  BERENICE. 

still  holds  the,  threads  within  her  fingers ;  Lachesis 
mercilessly  twirls  the  swift- revolving  spindle  ;  while 
Atropos,  with  shears,  sternly  cuts  the  appointed  meas 
ure  of  life. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

MY  heart  leaped  at  the  postman's  ring.  A 
LETTER!  dated  at  Florence,  with  a  long,  beautiful, 
enchanting  picture  of  his  home,  which  might  be  our 
home.  Yes,  from  Berthold  !  But,  in  such  passages 
as  these,  he  has  tenderly  wronged  me.  yet  unwit 
tingly  : 

"You  have  that  regard  for  names  which  those  who 
live  a  superficial  life  indulge.  But  things  are  of 
more  real  importance  than  names.  And  do  you  never 
feel  the  emptiness  of  the  mere  conventionalities  of 
life  ?  Is  there  not  something  higher,  better,  freer, 
which  the  immortal  soul  thirsts  after  ?  Yet  the 
coward  heart  puts  by  the  cup,  blaming  the  hand 
that  holds  it.  Berenice,  without  you  there  is  for 
me  no  future  !  Be  courageous  for  my  sake ;  for, 
in  reality,  those  social  laws  can  claim  no  strict  alle 
giance  from  you.  *  * 
27 


814  BERENICE. 

"  0,  that  I  had  hope,  or  will,  strong  enough  to 
bid  you  '  come,  '  feeling  sure  that  my  will  would 
be  your  law !  You  are  waging  a  stern  war  with 
unrelenting  fortune.  Yet  you  would  die,  sooner  than 
permit  my  interference.  Is  this  kind  ?  *  * 

li  A  home  is  open  to  receive  you.  Yet  you  stand 
on  that  cold  northern  shore,  shiveringly,  ready  to 
fling  yourself  into  the  ocean,  rather  than  the  fond 
arms  stretched  to  receive  you.  Forgive  me,  if  I 
speak  too  strongly." 

This  letter  greatly  disquieted  me.  Should  I  drink 
the  costly  wine  of  life  that  he  held  out  to  me? 
Should  I  sit  with  him  amid  the  shade  of  cluster 
ing  vines  and  ripening  fruits,  beneath  that  ardent 
southern  sun  ? 

No,  no,  my  heart !  Embrace  the  cross ;  and, 
though  tired  with  the  conflict,  yield  not ! 

So  I   answered   him   in   this   wise : 

"  While  I  am  armed  with  this  strong  resolve  to 
hold  out  firmly  against  the  sweet  temptations  and 
alluring  pictures  held  out  to  me,  then  only  am  I 
worthy  of  your  great  and  true  heart.  Only  while 
this  strength  lives  in  me,  can  I  truly  possess  you, 


BERENICE.  315 

or  you  me.  Let  us  still  belong  to  each  other,  as  we 
have,  till  happier  days  dawn.  It  may  be  true  that  I 
owe  society  no  allegiance :  but  I  would  be  loyal  to 
myself  though  it  be  by  martyrdom.  I  am  willing  to 
die  in  the  faith  in  which  I  have  lived.  You  say 
without  me  you  have  no  future  !  Let  your  future  be 
secured  by  assisting  me  to  accomplish  the  duty  of  the 
present.  I  will  not  deny  that  the  common-places  of 
every-day  life  are  often  irksome  to  me.  I  would  fain, 
if  I  might,  seek  some  new,  unpeopled  land  where  we 
might  rest  in  freedom, —  thinking  our  own  thoughts  and 
speaking  them,  too,  without  misconstruction  from  our 
fellow-men.  That  may  not  be.  Believe  me,  dear 
Berthold,  and  let  it  be  your  consolation,  my  life  is 
not  all  joyless.  I  am  happy,  forever,  in  the  precious 
thought  that  your  noble  heart  beats  so  warmly  for 
me.  And,  withal,  on  this  cold  northern  shore,  are 
many  friends  who  prize 

"  Thine  in  the  spirit, 

"  BERENICE." 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

I  HAD  recently  received  several  threatening  letters, 
anonymous  and  written  in  a  feigned  hand.  I  guessed 
their  authorship,  and  laid  them  aside,  without  com 
ment,  thinking  it  unnecessary  to  alarm  my  friends. 
I  knew  that  every  motion  of  mine  was  watched,  and 
that  my  steps  were  dogged  by  one  who  wished  me 
ill ;  and,  at  length,  an  indefinite  sense  of  dread  op 
pressed  me,  until  I  grew  thin  and  nervous  with  fear. 
An  ardent  nature  lends  a  supernatural  acuteness  to 
the  bodily  faculties;  and,  in  the  state  of  unconscious 
excitement  produced  by  the  ambiguous  threats  con 
tained  in  these  letters,  I  fell  a  prey  to  phantoms,  both 
of  sense  and  sound. 

Often  persons  seemed  to  hold  audible  conversations 
close  beside  me,  of  which  I  was  the  subject,  —  much  to 
my  horror  and  terror,  —  some  friendly,  others  full  of  bit 
ter  enmity ;  and  I  could  not  discover  which  were  the 


BERENICE.  317 

stronger ;  and  those  expressions  were  mingled  with  many 
others  as  strange. 

Sometimes  I  heard  strains  of  music,  soothing  and 
beautiful,  like  the  murmurings  of  an  ./Eolian  harp, — 
oftenest,  just  as  I  was  going  to  sleep  at  night ;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  as  though  entirely  to  destroy  the 
effect  of  the  music,  rude,  invisible  hands  assailed  me, 
shaking  me  by  the  shoulder,  or  pressing  on  the  top 
of  my  head  with  what  might  have  been  an  electric 
battery,  so  fearfully  did  it  thrill  and  torture  my 
nerves. 

I  could  neither  move  nor  speak  for  some  time,  and 
tried  to  argue  myself  into  the  belief  that  this  was  only 
nightmare  ;  for  why  should  I  be  the  sport  of  any  malig 
nant  thing,  as  these  presences,  whatever  they  were, 
proved  themselves  to  be,  by  depriving  me  night  after 
night  of  my  rest,  and  causing  me  such  suffering  ?  How 
and  why  should  I  be  thus  tormented,  even  if  fiends 
have  power  on  earth? 

My    sufferings    were    intense ;     and    when    I    was 

allowed  the  power  of   utterance,    and    questioned   my 

unwelcome    visitants,    strange    sighs   and    threatening 

touches  were  my  only  answers.     I  arose  in  the  morn- 

27* 


318  BERENICE. 

ings,  unrefreshed,  malcontent.     I  became  absorbed  with 

O     i  ' 

my  own  sensations,  taciturn,  and  altogether  unlike 
my  real  self.  And  I  was  so  heartily  ashamed  of  the 
matter  that  I  could  not  speak  of  it. 

I  attempted  to  make  some  laughing  allusion,  to  try 
if  it  would  not  loose  me  from  the  frightful  charm. 
The  words  died  in  my  throat,  and  I  could  only  relapse 
into  a  stony  silence.  I  saw  the  alarm  I  was  creat 
ing  —  an  alarm  I  could  not  dispel  —  in  the  minds  of 
my  friends.  Though  they  resorted  to  every  method 
within  their  reach  to  restore  my  agitated  mind  to  its 
equilibrium,  all  failed.  They  insisted  on  calling  a 
physician.  I  made  no  objection.  My  symptoms 
were  pronounced  the  result  of  over-excitement  and 
mental  anxiety. 

I  knew  that  was  all.  The  physician  ordered  quiet, 
early  hours,  and  a  generous  diet.  Quiet !  how  was 
that  to  be  obtained,  when,  through  all  the  long 
watches  of  the  night,  I  was  harried  by  imps  of  dark 
ness  ? 

Yes ;  I  kept  all  the  hours,  late  and  early,  and 
could  not  help  myself.  Could  I  but  see  the  forms 
that  afflicted  me,  I  felt  that  in  the  fulness  of  the  hor- 


BERENICE.  319 

ror  there  would  have  been  infinite  satisfaction.  This 
was  not  granted,  save  in  a  few  short  troubled 
dreams  snatched  from  those  long  fits  of  wakefulncss. 
Then  I  saw  them, —  vague  shapes,  nodding  and  jibing 
at  me,  and  with  infernal  mirth  hounding  me  down  to 
a  valley  of  darkness.  Just  as  the  ponderous  gates 
were  about  to  close  on  me,  I  would  awake,  smothered 
with  fear,  and  damp  with  the  life-dew  starting  from 
every  pore. 

These  terrible  visitations  continued  for  several  weeks, 
till  an  incident  occurred  which  somewhat  changed  the 
current  of  my  life,  and  I  found  relief  from  the  un 
real  phantoms  engendered  by  physical  pain. 

It  was  evening ;  after  a  day  of  unusual  stir  and 
busy  effort  for  me,  I  had  thrown  myself  for  a  few 
moments'  rest  on  the  couch,  in  a  small  back -parlor, 
opening  into  the  conservatory,  the  windows  of  which 
were  often  flung  wide,  as  if  to  win  the  lingering  twi 
light  for  a  longer  stay. 

The  house  was  very  still.  Mrs.  Hersey  was  attend 
ing  a  party ;  and  I  knew  the  servants  were  away  that 
evening  with  the  exception  of  Julia,  the  seamstress. 
She  had  just  left  the  room,  after  arranging  the  lights, 


320  BERENICE. 

as  I  requested  her  to  turn  the  gas  on  to  its  fullest 
extent.  I  was  so  nervous  that  the  darkness  stifled  me. 
She  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  when  I  heard  the 
basement  bell  ring.  At  another  time  I  might  not  have 
noticed  so  common  an  occurrence ;  but  the  perfect 
stillness  in  the  house,  and  the  fact  that  my  senses  were 
preternaturally  sharpened,  caused  that  sound,  subdued 
by  distance  as  it  was,  to  vibrate  with  peculiar  force 
on  my  wire-strung  nerves.  The  tintinnabulation  quick 
ened  the  pulsations  of  my  brain,  and  echoed  among 
the  throbbing  particles  for  minutes  after  the  sound 
had  actually  ceased.  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the 
impression  that  there  was  some  sort  of  magnetic  com 
munication  between  myself  and  the  ringer  at  the 
basement  door.  I  lay  quite  still,  thinking  that  per 
haps  it  was  another  form  of  spiritual  torture  by  which 
I  seemed  surrounded.  I  heard  nothing  more  for  per 
haps  fifteen  minutes,  —  and  I  measured  time  with  sur 
prising  accuracy  —  when,  as  I  lay  with  my  eyes  wide 
open,  fixed  on  the  conservatory-window,  I  saw  a  man 
rise  slowly  to  the  height  of  the  sash.  Entering,  he 
approached  the  open  door  of  the  room  in  which  I 
was.  He  came  on  with  a  stealthy,  cautious,  yet  heavy 


BERENICE.  321 

tread,  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  where  the  full  light 
fell  upon  his  figure, —  and  I  knew  him  !  It  was  he 
whom  the  laws  bade  me  call  my  husband ;  the  father 
of  my  children.  Then  he  neither  spoke  nor  moved, 
but  stood,  fixing  his  eyes  steadily  on  me,  while  his 
massive  face  and  head  and  his  features  assumed  the 
stony  aspect  of  an  Egyptian  Sphinx,  as  it  glistened 
in  the  white  light  that  fell  over  it. 

The  fierceness  of  his  glance  appalled  me.  I  saw 
that  he  was  pitiless,  and  awaited  my  doom  in  silence. 
I  bethought  me  of  his  vow,  made  long  ago.  He 
swore  by  his  right  hand,  in  the  face  of  heaven,  that 
my  life  should  be  the  forfeit  if  I  dared  to  quit  his 
side  and  live  apart  from  him ;  —  go  where  I  would, 
be  what  I  might,  his  vengeance  should  pursue  me. 
And  yet  I  had  scarcely  feared  him;  never  less  than 
at  this  moment,  as  he  stood  before  me  with  hatred 
on  his  hard,  stern  brow ;  for  I  said,  "I  am  only 
dreaming." 

He  seemed  to  read  my  thoughts;  for,  bending  his 
great  head  towards  me,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on 
mine,  he  muttered  two  words:  "  You  remember!" 
and  slowly  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  bosom ;  it  rested 


322  BERENICE. 

there  a  moment;  more  slowly  yet  he  drew  it  forth, 
and  I  was  not  surprised  to  see  him  hold  a  pistol  in 
his  clutch.  As  I  arose  from  my  recumbent  posture, 
he  deliberately  pointed  the  weapon  at  my  heart. 

"  Don't  attempt  to  stir,  for  you  are  in  my  power ! 
Your  moments  are  precious ;  for  you  have  but  a  few 
left !  The  only  person  in  this  house,  besides  you  and 
I,  is  in  my  pay.  I  have  waited  a  long  time,  hoping 
a  sweeter  revenge  than  this.  But  your  art  or  your 
innocence  baffles  me.  I  will  do  you  the  credit, 
madam,  to  say  you  have  refused  some  splendid  offers, 
which  you  have  prudently  treated  as  honorable  pro 
posals. 

"  I  have  possession  of  your  private  papers,  and 
sundry  letters  from  one  Berthold  St.  Cyr.  Nay,  don't 
start.  I  have  more  to  say  to  you,  my  wife  !  I  think 
your  strength  of  purpose  is  slightly  on  the  wane  !  " 
His  tone  was  bitterly  ironical.  "  You  might  enjoy 
some  months  or  years  of  pleasure  before  my  revenge 
could  reach  you  in  Italy.  I  shall  destroy  these  pleas 
ing  anticipations.  Speak  your  last  words !  " 

For  a  moment,  at  the  dreadful  certainty  that  speedy 
death  stood  confronting  me,  an  icy  shudder  subdued 


BERENICE.  323 

me;  and  in  a  single  instant  the  whole  map  of  my 
life  lay  before  me  clear  and  distinct.  Every  act, 
every  thought  was  pressed  into  that  single  fraction 
of  time.  My  soul  looked  clear  beyond  to  the 
blessed  shores  of  peace,  and  I  said,  "  Do  what  you 
will ;  I  have  ever  acted  truthfully,  in  love,  and  justly 
towards  you  and  towards  my  fellow-beings.  And, 
if  sometimes  duty  has  seemed  hard,  and  the  knowl 
edge  that  a  happiness  might  be  mine  beyond  the  reach 
of  your  cruel  hands  and  harmful  deeds,  it  has  been 
but  the  passing  thought  of  a  moment,  banished  before 
it  was  half-formed.  If  it  had  not  been  so,  you  have 
least  cause  of  complaint ;  for,  by  right  and  justice,  I 
am  not  amenable  to  you  for  my  human  weaknesses, 
since  it  is  you  who  have  left  me  exposed  to  trials 
which  nothing  but  the  most  determined  courage  could 
have  withstood.  And  I  do  not  ask  that  the  years 
of  my  life  may  be  prolonged.  The  Father's  will 
still  reigns.  If  you  can:  murder  me !  I  am  helpless 
and  ready  to  die  !  " 

I  folded  my  arms  upon  my  breast,  filled  with  a 
strange  composure,  when  I  saw,  what  he  did  not,  a 
new  actor  in  the  scene.  The  girl  Julia,  pale  as  death, 


324  BEKENICE. 

stole  in  at  the  open  window.  For  an  instant  she 
glared  at  the  deadly  weapon  he  still  held  towards 
me;  then,  with  a  frantic  shriek,  she  sprang  forward 
and  threw  herself  upon  his  arm.  The  pistol  went 
off,  and  Ralph  Grayson's  hand,  brought  before  the 
muzzle  by  the  unexpected  movement,  was  shattered. 
The  arm  dropped  bleeding  and  mutilated  at  his  side. 
The  ball,  after  passing  through  his  hand,  lodged,  not 
deeply,  in  my  left  arm.  It  was  a  keen  shock,  and 
I  sank  on  to  the  couch  beside  which  I  was  standing. 
Julia  fainted  at  the  feet  of  the  wounded  man,  who 
looked  ghastly  in  his  anguish.  I  started  up  as  he 
approached  me. 

'Tell  me,"  he  said,  subdued  and  gaspingly,  "that 
you  are  not  mortally  hurt !  " 

The  blood  was  trickling  slowly  down  my  side  from 
my  wounded  arm.  "I  think  I  am  not,"  I  replied. 
"  But  don't  stop  to  think  of  me.  Attend  to  your 
own  hurt ;  and,  if  you  are  found  here,  and  thus, 
you  will  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  law. 
Go,  instantly  !  Leave  the  house !  The  family  may 
return  at  any  moment." 

"  Say  that  you  forgive  me,"  he  asked,  imploringly. 


BERENICE.  325 

"I  do;  but"  —  I  shrunk  back  as  he  came  near  — 
nearer  —  "  but  do  not  touch  me  !  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

lie  staggered  and  seemed  fainting.  Pity  returned. 
I  arose,  and,  going  into  a.  closet,  poured  out  some  wine, 
and  resolutely  held  it  to  his  lips.  He  drank  it,  and 
seemed  reviving.  Then  I  took  from  a  drawer  in  the 
closet  some  linen,  and  with  my  right  hand  did  the 
best  I  could  to  stanch  the  flow  of  blood  while  he 
could  reach  a  surgeon. 

'•Have  you  money,"  I  asked,  "  to  take  you  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  law  ?  " 

"No." 

"  There,  take  my  purse."  It  was  tolerably  full,  for 
I  had  that  day  received  a  considerable  amount. 

I  dashed  water  over  Julia,  and,  when  he  was  gone 
and  she  came  to  herself,  I  began  to  feel  very  faint. 
I  directed  her  to  bandage  my  arm  until  it  could  be 
properly  attended  to;  and  then,  just  like  a  woman, 
I  cried  and  sobbed  myself  into  a  state  of  uncon 
sciousness. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  morning.  I  was  in  my 
own  bed,  and  my  first  thought  was  how  nicely  I 
had  slept;  but  what  a  shocking  dream,  and  how 
28 


326  BERENICE. 

real  it  seemed  !  I  was  stopped  in  my  reflections  by 
a  strange  sensation  in  my  arm.  I  looked  at  it  with 
a  painful  suspicion  that  my  incomprehensible  visitants 
had,  at  length,  discovered  themselves  in  a  tangible  form, 
and  had  thus  left  their  mark  on  me.  I  heard  a  low 
sob  near  my  pillow,  and  said  "Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  me  —  Julia.  0,  'madam,  are  you  better? 
and  will  you  let  me  speak  to  you  and  tell  you 
what  is  the  truth  ?  I  did  n't  know  he  wanted  to 
kill  you.  He  told  me  he  wanted  to  speak  a  few 
words  to  you;  that  it  couldn't  do  you  harm,  nor 
anybody  else.  And  he  coaxed  me  to  give  him  the 
little  box  that  stood  on  your  dressing-table.  I  did 
not  know  it  contained  your  letters  and  papers.  He 
said  that  box  was  his ;  that  it  was  worth  ever 
so  much,  and  that  you  carried  it  off  from  him ; 
and  in  an  evil  hour  I  consented  to  get  it  back  to 
him.  He  swore  an  oath  he  would  not  harm*  you. 
But  when  he  came  last  night,  for  I  had  told  him 
you  and  I  would  be  at  home  alone,  I  felt  afraid 
of  him,  he  looked  so  fierce  and  strong.  And  after 
I  had  shown  him  where  you  were,  from  the  balcony 
outside,  I  went  away,  but  could  not  stay  long.  I 


BERENICE.  327 

heard  him  speaking  cruelly  to  you ;  and  when  I 
understood  his  threats,  and  saw  that  pistol  pointed 
at  you,  my  first  and  last  thought  was  to  try  and 
stop  the  mischief  I  had  done.  I  thought  I  could 
keep  him  from  hitting  you.  But  0,  I  couldn't!" 

"  But  your  movement  saved  my  life,  perhaps,  Julia. 
Do  not  distress  yourself  about  that  which  cannot  now 
be  recalled." 

"  But  I  shall  be  sent  away  from  the  house  in  dis 
grace,"  she  sobbed,  wringing  her  hands. 

"Julia,  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you,  in  the  future, 
never  to  trust  a  person  whom  you  do  not  know, 
particularly  with  other  people's  affairs.  I  will  per 
suade  Mrs.  Hersey  to  keep  you  yet.  You  have  been 
faithful  in  all  other  things.  One  need  not  be  cast 
away  for  a  first  and  single  error." 

"0,  madam,  he  deceived  me,  or  I  would  never 
have  been  so  wicked  to  you  !  but,  0  madam,  he  made 
me  love  him  first,  and  talked  to  me  of  marriage ; 
and  he  is  so  handsome,  how  could  I  help  loving 
him?  I  did  not  know  so  much  of  you  then  as  I 
do  now.  He  said  he  was  divorced  from  you,  but 
that  you  should  never  marry  while  he  lived." 


328  BERENICE. 

"Yet,  I  don't  think  he  meant  to  murder  me,  only 
to  frighten  me;  and,  perhaps,  he  thought  I  might 
say  something  he  could  make  a  handle  of,  for  there 
is  no  doubt  but  he  has  felt  very  unkindly  towards 
me.  But  it  is  over  now !  His  hurt  has  cured 
him !  " 

Mrs.  Hersey  here  entered,  and  put  a  stop  to  our 
conversation  by  sending  Julia  away  and  taking  her 
place  beside  me.  She  asked  an  explanation  of  the 
occurrence  of  the  night  before ;  for  Julia's  account 
was  of  too  confused  a  nature  to  be  wrell  understood. 
I  accordingly  explained,  as  Julia's  confession  had 
somewhat  enlightened  me  as  to  the  whole  affair. 

Mrs.  Hersey,  starting  up,  declared  she  would  have 
the  man  instantly  arrested;  and  Julia,  too,  should 
be  taken  into  custody.  I  begged  her  to  resume  her 
seat,  and  hear  me  tranquilly.  "It  is  my  wish  that 
he  may  escape ;  he  is  probably  now  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  officers.'7 

Then  I  plead  for  Julia.  "  She  is  not  very  much 
to  blame.  Her  heart  went  astray.  She  listened  to 
the  voice,  which  was  to  her  oracular,  and  did  its  bid 
ding,  thoughtless  of  serious  harm.  She  only  trusted 


BERENICE.  329 

one  who  professed  to  love  her ;  and  that  we  might 
any  of  us  do." 

I  laid  my  hand  caressingly  on  hers.  She  lis 
tened  to  me,  was  softened,  and  promised  all  I  asked. 
"  And  now,"  said  I,  "you  must  let  me  rest;  for 
all  this  has  made  me  very,  very  weary." 

As  the  days  stole  into  evening,  and  the  nights 
into  morning,  I  found  that  I  was  freed  from  the 
fantasies  of  my  distempered  imagination.  I  had  a 
good  deal  of  fever  for  some  weeks ;  otherwise,  my 
wound  was  not  very  troublesome.  It  healed  kindly, 
though  I  still  wear  the  scar,  and  shall  carry  it  with 
me  to  my  grave ;  but  it  is  hidden  by  a  bracelet. 

For  Ralph  Grayson  the  scenes  of  that  night, 
together  with  the  partial  loss  of  his  hand,  had 
wrought  a  great  change  in  his  character.  He  had 
resolved  to  leave  me  at  peace,  and  that  I  should 
pursue  the  even  tenor  of  my  way  unmolested  by 
him.  Of  his  own  accord,  and  without  solicitation, 
he  placed  in  the  hands  of  an  eminent  barrister  in 
the  city  such  papers  as  by  the  law  would  entitle 
me  to  be  honorably  free  from  him ;  thus  making  all 
the  restitution  in  his  power  for  the  terrible  suffer- 
28* 


330  BEKENICE. 

ing  to  which  he  had  subjected  me.  And  when  he 
went  to  "  El  Dorado,"  as  he  shortly  after  did,  he 
persuaded  the  weak,  volatile  Julia  to  bear  him  com 
pany. 

After  a  time  all  these  glad  and  sad  tidings  were 
sent  to  my  early  friend ;  for  he  had  said  he  must 
come  home ;  and,  for  a  little  time,  the  thought  that 
he  would  come  swept  the  complete  horizon  of 
thought  with  happiness,  and  not  a  cloud  of  doubt 
obscured  my  one  bright  dream. 

Joyous  preparations  were  made  for  his  return ; 
but  he  never  reached  my  arms.  The  ship  that  he 
embarked  in  never  came  to  port.  And  for  many, 
many  months  my  spirit  was  wrapped  in  a  deeper 
gloom  than  any  I  yet  had  known. 

Feeling  is  fragmentary,  instinct  perpetual;  but 
never  are  the  dim  conceptions  of  the  soul  consecu 
tive  or  continuous.  The  moments  when  the  electric 
flash  irradiates  with  light  and  heat  the  whole  being, 
when  the  soul  trembles  at  the  sublimity  of  its  own 
deep  music,  are  followed  by  the  quiet  hush  that 
lulls  its  tumultuous  passions  into  rest. 

On  me   that  slumber  fell  deep  and  overpowering. 


BERENICE.  331 

Then  came  the  gradual  rousing,  the  waking  to  new 
hopes  and  wishes.  One  strong,  deep  yearning  pos 
sessed  me  wholly.  He,  my  loved  one,  had  left  a 
home  on  that  foreign  shore, —  his  home,  where  he  had 
lived  and  thought  of  me.  My  heart  turned  thither 
ward  as  to  my  first,  last,  only  hope, —  that  hope  the 
stricken  heart  can  only  know, —  to  look  upon  the 
scenes  which  his  eyes  had  last  beheld,  to  touch  the 
things  he  touched,  to  kiss  with  reverent  lips  the  pil 
low  which  his  cherished  head  had  last  pressed,  and 
to  fold  some  loved  memorial  against  the  throbbing 
heart,  to  hear  his  sighs  still  lingering  around  the 
blessed  walls,  —  thrice  blessed  for  his  sake,  —  that 
was  my  soul's  Mecca,  my  last  hope. 

I  spun  the  living  fibres  upon  the  wheel  of 
thought,  with  its  ceaseless  motion  and  its  endless 
silence  to  make  a  slender  causeway  to  bear  me  on, 
where  I  might  enjoy  "the  luxury  of  woe"  amidst 
the  memorials  of  my  lost  idol. 

As  I  sit  here,  gazing  out  on  the  sea,  I  some 
times  think  my  thoughts  are  but  like  the  foam  on 
the  billow  yonder,  lifting  itself  one  moment  to  the 
all-caressing  sunlight,  then  sinking  back  in  the  black 


332  BERENICE. 

waves  of  forgetfulness.  Yet  the  foam  is  still  the 
crowning  beauty  of  the  wave  that  bears  it. 

Thus  in  my  twilight  dreams  I  dimly  see  the 
faces  of  a  generation  that  has  past,  and  catch  soft 
whispers  of  remembered  voices,  or  hear  familiar  foot 
falls  lightly  sounding  on  the  chamber  floors.  The 
doors  of  dusty  rooms  creak  on  their  hinges,  when 
no  living  thing  is  housed  within  but  me. 

I  am  never  lonely.  I  look  out  upon  the  sea,  and 
think  how  it  holds  within  its  bosom  the  lost  treas 
ures  of  so  many  fond  hearts.  And  the  winds,  as  they 
wander  sadly  by,  wail  a  requiem  whose  burden  is 
"  passing  away." 

But  this  sorrow,  though  it  may  never  be  uprooted, 
will  not  wholly  engross  me.  The  pleasures  of  social 
intercourse  have  no  power  to  charm  me  back  to  the 
world ;  yet  I  must  not  forget  the  children  of  my 
heart,  nor  the  dear  friends  whose  sympathy  cheered 
me  in  my  early  years.  My  children  are  still  at 
school,  cared  for  by  those  who  love  them  for  my  sake. 

Before  long  I  shall  clasp  to  my  bosom  my  dar 
lings,  and  you,  too,  dear ,  for  whom  this  eventful 

story  has  been  written. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


N2  416832 


De  Lesdernier,  E.P. 

Berenice .  D16 

Bit 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


